The Army of Four
by ASouffleToServeTwo
Summary: In the age of fire, four knights of the Great Lord Gwyn were tasked with an impossible mission. To reclaim the North from the surge of humanity, and seal the gates of death. Amongst these humans is the prophesied Dark Lord, the one destined to draw the dark. Ornstein. Artorias. Gough. Ciaran. These were their names, and this is the story of their quest.
1. Prologue Poem

A storm of steel.

An army of four.

A dwindling fire.

A crumbling lore.

A battle long-fought.

A war yet to come.

A million more deaths,

Before it is done.

Scales of rock.

Hordes of undead.

A path carved by fire,

A path yet un-tread.

An unspeakable secret.

An unfathomable task.

Assigned to just four,

Each wearing a mask.

The Golden Knight,

Armour polished so fine.

Wielding his spear,

The first was Ornstein.

The Second, so brave.

With the darkest road to walk.

Artorias the Abysswalker,

As swift to fight, as he was to talk.

The fiercesome giant,

Who had nowhere to go.

Gough was the third,

Hands on his great bow.

Strong yet forgotten, the final. The fourth.

The assassin, the killer, the stealer of life.

Ciaran, her name. The Great Lord's Blade.

The greatest of Dragons fell to her knife.

Their task: perilous.

Head up to the North.

Where the great human plague,

Had burst forth.

A journey of danger,

Across a land of broken stone.

Their greatest fears,

They would face alone.

In the age of fading fire.

A greater threat would be born.

The fabled Dark Lord,

From the Lord Soul, his humanity torn.

The creatures that lurk,

In the dark of the earth.

Whispers in the night.

The fear of the rebirth.

A dark end, a painful death.

To each of the four knights.

At their final breath,

At the loss of their final fight.

Their fates have been foretold.

Their prophesy is drawn.

None of the four know,

Whether they will see the dawn.

But they serve as comrades,

Brothers and Sisters in arms.

Bound by loyalty to protect each other,

From death. And from harm.

As their tale begins,

One might wonder.

The blood-soaked hell ahead,

Will you join them yonder?


	2. One: Ashes to Ashes

Humanity.

They say that those who need it the most are those who have the most of it. Those who hoard it, seeking out others to try and rip it from them.

Does that make sense? No, I guess it doesn't.

But what is humanity? What distinguishes the wriggly black sprites from that which we hold within ourselves?

If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here today. On the blackened ashes that once heralded new life.

It has a kind of ancient feel to it, but the Kiln of the First Flame is essentially timeless. Nothing breathes. No birds sing. Just the sound of the canned wind blowing over the jet-black dunes.

Some say that the black sands are actually the skulls which Lord Gwyn crushed on his path to the First Flame. I know better, of course.

They are actually the ashes of the Black Knights of Lordran who were incinerated by the lighting of the Flame, some hundreds of years ago.

I should know. I was there. Compatriot to his Great Lord at the final battle against the Ancient Dragons. Scarramout. Oh, the souls who fell that day. I have a duty to them to avenge what they fought for.

What he now threatens to destroy once and for all.

I've tracked him here. I had the chance to kill him long ago. I should have taken it. But of course, I didn't know who he was then. Who he was destined to become.

The Dark Lord. The extinguisher of the Age of Fire. The bringer of night.

I followed the trail of corpses. Gwyn's spectral Black Knights, who were once mighty warriors. Now they lay still, husks in metal armour. Ran through by his blade.

I paid my respects a long time ago. These aren't the loyal men who pledged their life to the Lord. They are but shades, shadows of what they were, bound to walk the ruins of Lordran for all eternity.

So I just carried on past them, crossing the crumbling arch over the endless drop, and descending the stairs.

I know it's too late. Gywn is dead. I feel it. But I must try to avenge him. The Dark Lord is within my grasp. He has killed too many of my allies.

My friends.

He must be stopped. The Age of Fire MUST continue. And I'm the only one left to finish the job. The Last Knight of Gwyn. The only one he made the mistake of sparing.

He would now pay for his mistake.

For I may not be the strongest of our group, I may well be the cunningest. I may not swing a greatsword, but I make up for it in my agility. I may not conjure lightning, but I control the shadows. And I may not have the Eagle Eye of an archer, but my swings never miss.

I've trained my whole life for this moment. The Lord Blades, who I once led. The Knights of Gwyn, who I once travelled with as their equal.

The Dark Lord will fall this day.

And there he is, in the centre of the cavern, with Gwyn lying dead at his feet. The First Flame illuminates his figure, but it is clearly starting to dwindle. He has his back to me. This should be easy.

I begin to creep forward. I notice now how he wears the armour of his fallen foes, like a terrible Totem pole.

The Mask of the Father belonging to the necromancer Pinwheel of the Catacombs. The sword of the Albino Dragon Seath, who was the Duke of the Anor Londo Archives. A notorious traitor, and a dragon.

So I'm not too bothered to see him go.

But... No... He's also wearing Artorias' azure blue armour... That bastard... I'll split him open!

I'm really close now. He's sticking his greatsword into Gwyn's body, like a sadistic animal. It's sickening.

I feel the hilt of my Golden Tracer, and brandish it before my eyes. It glimmers in the dim light. What could I have ever done without it? My oldest and truest friend.

Said like a true assassin.

His back is inches away. I can't fail.

I raise my Tracer in the air, and bring it down towards his back.

But suddenly, he turns and his Balder Shield connects sharply with the Tracer, sending it flying away from my grip.

He turns to me in full now, no emotion visible beneath his wooden mask. He raises his greatsword to strike me down.

In a panic I roll away from him, narrowly missing the sharp swipe.

I reach to my right sheath, and pull out my Dark Silver Tracer, my other dagger.

The dark to the Gold Tracer's light.

I run at him without mercy or fear, making wild yet precise aims at his torso.

He expects it, and brings his shield up, rendering my blows useless. He sweeps his gigantic greatsword at me again. I only narrowly duck it.

I stab at his chest, and feel immense satisfaction at making the incision. Blood spews from the wound in Artorias' old armour. I silently apologise to his spirit, and strike again.

But the Dark Lord was one step ahead. Backstepping the second swipe, he suddenly runs forward, swinging the greatsword over his head in an arc motion.

I don't have time to get out of the way before the steel hulk crashes into my armour, crushing my skull, knocking me flat on my front, no feeling in my body. I drop the Silver Dark Tracer blindly.

I see his feet in my blood-soaked vision. I failed. I failed in my most important mission.

"My dear... Artorias... I'm... sorry..." I stutter, my own blood gurgling my words.

This is it... isn't it? It ends here. I can't think of any last good things to say. I've lived a very long time.

But have I lived well?

These thoughts weigh on me as I prepare for the final blow.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before your death. Well... mine did.

I never had a real beginning to my life. I never had parents. I was just... born. From the ashes of the flames. In the midst of the Great Battle of Scarramout.

So... I guess I'll just start there...

It all began 1145 years ago to this day...


	3. Two: The Scorched Earth

**Hello all! I'm so sorry this chapter took so long. Exams and The Fall of the Silence have been distracting me. Be prepared for however for what might become another long wait for Chapter Three (or 4? I don't really count prologue). Once my exams end on June 19th, I'll try and update this story much more often too.**

**Please remember that the battle of Scarramout is not canonical, but an interpretation of the war between the Lords and the Dragons. I apologise if this take on the lore leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.**

**Thanks as always for reading! Please review - it helps me a lot.**

I found myself grinning ecstatically as I buried the sharp of my blade through the Wyverns hide. It screeched as the cold steel tore through its scaly flesh, then its wingbeat grew still as its heart stopped dead.

I withdraw my blade and watch with intense satisfaction as the irritating creature drops to the floor.

It had been dogging me all day. In the caked heat of the great battle. Scarramout.

I can't believe it might finally be near the close. The War, that is. It's all I've ever known. I'm a soldier, a knight.

Will I even have a place in peace-time?

But it's not of importance now. The battle is still raging. Atop the great mountain cliffs from which he name this battle, I can still hear it's roaring. It's defiance. I can almost feel the heat from its breath from where I'm standing on the plains below.

Yiriat. The King of the Everlasting Dragons. He is our main target. For he is the necromancer who continues to re-animate the dead that we slay. Undoing his accursed magic will deal the final blow against the dragons.

And the war will be won.

I am suddenly aware of an acute searing pain in my left calf. I bend down to examine it.

Drat! The Wyvern's managed to gash me. And I know what that means, sadly.

Wyvern's have venomous fangs. A beastly adaptation to top off an already fearsome creature. No'one survives their bites.

So, I'm dying then. I may only have hours. But I don't feel fear, strangely. I've leant my hand to the cause. I've butchered hundreds.

Sure, they were terrible monsters. But they were living creatures. To them, we look like the villains.

They once ruled this world, unchallenged. But the dawn of the first flames brought us into existance.

We few. The Gravelord, Nito. The Witches of Izalith. And Gwyn and his armies, of which I'm a proud part of.

We've all done our parts in the slaughter to define this land. Now, as it reaches its close, I wonder (foolishly) what there is left for me. Do I deserve a crowning place amongst the new world leaders?

It is of no consequence, for I am a dead man.

Perhaps this is better than life.

But I won't abandon my task while I still have breath in my body. I pick up my fallen greatshield from the scorched earth, and look about me frantically as I notice the obvious.

Sif. Where is Sif?

Oh dear. I had last seen him...

No. Oh god, no.

I'm running now, finding energy I didn't know I had, pounding across the plains in my chinked blue armour.

I reach the Glades. And I see him, backed against the rocky cliff face, sword in mouth, facing off against a pack of Wyverns.

He looks so fierce, and brave. I admire his purity so.

But soon he will be torn apart. I've got to help him!

I sprint down the rubbled hill towards my cornered compatriot. His eyes light up as he sees me, and he finds the impossible will to swing his sword one last time, successfully cutting down one of the three Wyverns.

The other two screech and hiss as they hear my approach. The first (who I presume to be the Alpha) turned to me, wings outstretched in an attempt to ward me off from their kill.

No chance. There's no way I'm leaving Sif here to die to their foul claws.

Seeing my dedication, the lead Wyvern roars and leaps at me. We collide, and as we do I bring up my battered shield and smash the reptile straight in the jaw. I hear several of it's teeth shatter on impact.

Then it's on top of me, and I'm thrown off my feet. I feel its sharpened claws digging into the folds of my armour. The pain comes swift, and mercilessly. But I endure, reaching for my sword to cut it's head off.

It snarls, spraying me with a rancid mixture of saliva and the blood from it's broken teeth.

Then it sinks it's fangs into my shoulder, bringing me ever closer to passing out. The agony is white-hot, and I grit my teeth so not to scream.

Now I've been infected twice. I have mere minutes to live before the poison kills me.

And I REFUSE to spend them at this foul beasts mercy.

I yell an empowered battle-cry, and with all my strength, throw the Wyvern from my torso.

It lands metres away, its claws scrabbling in the dirt. I move quickly to reclaim my greatsword, turning only in time to see it lunge at me.

Reacting at lightning-fast speed, I grab the snapping jaws of the incoming creature, and bring my sword upwards through it's skull.

The effect is instantaneous. The light disappears from it's tiny black eyes, and its head lolls in my hands.

I let go and the Wyvern slumps to the dust, motionless. I breathe in slowly, enjoying what could be my last few seconds in this world.

I look over to where Sif is tussling with the last Wyvern. His jaws are sunk into it's left wing, while the Wyvern's claws are tearing into his flesh.

This is my fault. I never should have left him here alone.

I'm about to charge the fiend when a huge arrow whizzes past me, and implants itself into the spine of the struggling Wyvern.

It's struggle stops instantly, and Sif falls over in a heap. I run to him and bury my head in his fur.

"I'm so sorry, boy," I whisper gently. The wolf whimpers, but relaxes at the sound of my voice.

I look behind me to see his saviour, reflected against the light.

"Thank you," I muster breathlessly. "If it weren't for you..."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary. What I did was of no consequence. We are comrades. I know you would do the same for me".

I nod, wordlessly grateful nonetheless.

"You're injured," he continued.

"It's nothing."

"It is. You've been bitten. Let me see."

"I'm fine! We have to find help for Sif!"

"Don't be stubborn, Artorias! Sif will be fine! His wounds are not serious."

I took a look at my fallen companion. It was true: his injuries were slight. He had been fortunate. The Wyvern had not bitten him.

The pain was flaring in my shoulder and calf, but I chose to ignore it. "The attack on Yiriat has begun! I will not abandon my post!"

"You have done more than enough. We can handle the rest. Now let me see!"

I relented, and the giant lumbered over to where I was huddled on the ground. He set down the almighty bow he had used to kill the Wyvern, and moved to examine my leg. Despite having enormous hands, his touch was slight and gentle.

"Hmm. This wound is not too deep. We must seek Gwynevere. Her remedies can save you yet."

It wasn't that I didn't trust the giant archer. I just wasn't sure I wanted to live with the consequences of cowardice. I was a knight of Gwyn, after all.

But I had no choice, for my limbs were going numb, and my focus was slipping, shrouded by a strange black fog. I felt dizzy, and nauseous. And my blood was like fire in my veins.

The archer lifted me from the ground with one of his massive arms. Slinging Sif in the other and his bow on his back, he began to stride away from the Glade.

As he stomped, he was talking. Whether it was to me, or himself, was unclear. He just kept rumbling in his unmistakable deep voice.

"First the Bat, and now this. The dragons are not going out without a struggle! But if I could just take down the Bat, then their aerial advantage is lost. I must find it, and quickly."

I was slipping in and out of consciousness, my mind now fully deformed by the hold of the venom. I could hear strange whisperings. I was certain they were fake, of course. But yet, they were unnerving all the same.

"Artorias... The Abyss, Artorias... The Abyss is waiting for you... Fear the dark, Artorias... For the Dark is waiting for you..."

Then I blacked out.

(-)

When I opened my eyes again my surroundings had changed, and there was a soft whining sound coming from my right hand side.

I tried to crane my neck to look but it was too stiff and I gave in.

"Don't try and move," the giant's voice called out to me. "You're not going anywhere. Let us fight the battle."

I groaned as my sluggish vision focussed on his voice. The giant was fully suited in armour now, and had slung on his back a quiver full of his custom-carved stone arrows. And those things were HUGE. About the size of my arm.

"Where... where am I?" I manage, tasting sourness in my mouth from what I assume is the anti venom.

"Base camp," the archer grumbled, testing the draw on his greatbow. "The wounded are looked after here. The battle nears its close, you will be fine."

"But... no... I have to help..." I fumble, trying to move my creaky muscles from their dormant state. "Why can't I... move?"

"I thought you'd try and resist," he replied. "So I mixed some Darkwood Pollen into your antidote for good measure. You'll be fine in a few hours, but I won't see my comrade die worthlessly."

His intentions were pure, but I was furious all-the-same.

The giant turned to me, satisfied that his bow was readied. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "But I must go now. You will be fine here, but the Dragonslayers need me. Kalameet has been spotted at the pinnacle. Gywn thinks he is guarding Yiriat. We must fell him in order to prevail."

I could hear the worry in his voice. It wasn't misplaced: Kalameet was ruthless, a dragon by nature and personality. They say no man was engaged him and lived to tell the tale, so I fear for my saviour's safety greatly.

The archer turns to leave. I call after him, desperately. "You don't have to do this! Just un-paralyse me and I can help you!"

"Can't do that, Artorias" The giant returned, not even looking at me.

"Gough!" I shout, but the giant has gone. I cuss, much against my good nature. That stubborn son of a bitch. He is just so damn selfless. I hate him for what he's done, but yet I could never despise him because I owe him my life.

And Sif's.

I just hope he'll be alright.


	4. Three: The Lion and the Rock

I can hear them now. The drums. The pounding in my head that has followed me since the moment of his existence.

The drums of war. A great calling. My calling.

To many such a relentless drumbeat would probably be considered as insanity. But they act somewhat differently for me. Like a force pushing me onwards.

As I plunge the tip of my spear through a nearby Wyvern's throat, I hear the beat pick up and intensify. I smile involuntarily.

I really have no reason to be, but yet - I'm greatly enjoying this battle.

It feels like any chains that bind me in life are melted here where I am a free spirit, engaging in an energetic battle dance.

But it's not the value of my own life that allows for such recklessness. It's my sense of honour for my purpose; the controlling notion that anything less than my very best is not good enough.

I stand on the great plain of Scarramout, swaying back and forth with great speed and agility to impale the oncoming wyvern foot-soldiers. I have contributed to a great volume of the corpses around me. I should feel proud.

But it's not enough. Because how can one fight an immortal menace like the Everlasting Dragons and expect it to be easy. The clue is in the name: 'Everlasting'.

The bodies don't stay dead.

The work of Yiriat, the King of the Dragons and a notorious necromancer. His powers prevent a victory for our side. Nito's miasma of death and disease can only deteriorate their society if we can stop their inevitable reanimation.

And that's what we plan to do this day. Our primary aim: Kill Yiriat.

I'm working my way towards the Great Mountain where he slumbers. Him, Targaroth and Seath. The Council of the Dragons.

The attack is going to take place soon. When the horn of Gwyn sounds. Until then, I have a duty to continue the fight here.

I spot two Wyverns approaching, hissing fiercely like the overgrown reptiles that they are. I grip my Dragonslayer's Spear tightly, feeling the crackles of built-up static electricity on my fingertips.

I may not be a great archer. Or a stealthy assassin. But I have my own prowess: the manipulation and control of lightning.

I don't remember when I realised that I had such powers. It was not uncommon amongst Gwyn's children to use spears of lightning in the form of miracles whilst in combat. But my skills are more refined. More raw. Whilst they collect electricity from the air, I can generate my own.

Useful a power as it is, it does make me a rather overpowering person to be around. I know that the blue knight Artorias, is quietly wary of me. He believes that my power has given me an ego, a sense of self-centred importance.

Well, I have a lot to say of Artorias. For a start, he degrades himself to the point in which I laugh out loud whenever I see him. This is because of his oversized wolf compatriot. Apparently he's called 'Sif'. I have always simply referred to him as 'the Wolf'. Because that's all he is, a dumb animal. But Artorias is a soft sap, and has grown greatly attached to his pet. Such weaknesses, I consider to be demeaning to his character. He is a knight, but he is the only knight that I do not respect.

He's wrong though. My goals are all-but centred around my loyalty to the Lord Gwyn.

The first of the Wyvern's is closing fast now. I feel the rush of charge through the spear in my hands, and imagine myself holding this power, and bending it in my desired direction.

As I watch a long, pointed spear of lightning is exerted from the point of my spear. The Wyvern roars angrily as it flies towards him, and is impaled through the left side of its hide. The wound is fatal, and the Wyvern collapses in the dust, stirring it up into a streaky cloud.

I sweep my spear back around, all my senses fully kicking, and my stamina limitless. When I fight, I never feel constrained by my mortality. I never need to rest, and my vigour allows me to take multiple hits without so much as flinching. The gift of my unique soul, that I discovered in the flames from whence I came.

I face the other Wyverns, who are keeping their distance, jaws snapping hungrily at me. They're afraid. For now.

Behind me I hear the clinking of heavy armour, and I whip around quickly, spear at the ready.

"Calm thyself, Ornstein," the silver-plated knight cried. "I am friend, not foe."

I lower my spear cautiously. I recognise the knight from his heavy, clunky armour and impenetrable greatshield.

"Havel," I acknowledge. "I can handle myself. You are better suited to the front line."

The tank-like knight laughs, his voice booming from within his sturdy grey helm.

"We are dragonslayers," Havel reminded me. "We fight as one, or else these dragons have the upper hand."

Reluctantly, I drop my resistance. "So be it then," I announce, bringing my spear back up to my chest height. "But these ones are mine."

Havel grunts, and brings his great shield up to protect himself. "Go ahead," he declares. "I will await you here."

I turn back to the Wyverns, who are craning their necks forward at myself and Havel. They look hungry.

I hope they like cold steel.

I rush at the pair at the speed of the lightning in my spear. I take them by surprise, and the first doesn't even have time to blink before my spear is thrust straight through its long neck.

Realising that it was now alone, the final Wyvern raised its wings and took to the sky.

No. I wasn't letting him go that easily.

I grip my spear tightly, feeling the sparks in my fingers flicker and burst. Then, with both hands, I thrust the point skywards, unleashing a streamlined streak of electricity through the tip.

The Wyvern barely made it to the skyline before it was impaled straight through its heart.

I turn away and face Havel, smiling smugly beneath my helmet.

He doesn't look impressed, but its impossible to read his face through his helmet.

I hear the loud crash behind me that I'd been anticipating. The Wyvern's body hitting the ground.

"There," I say, trying not to sound too proud. Its very unbecoming of a knight to bask in his own glories.

Havel lowers his shield, and lifts his gigantic hammer into the air as a sign of respect and comradeship.

There's a lot about Havel that makes me wary. His slightly overenthusiastic attitude to killing dragons, to name but one. Its a job, but the way Havel beats their skulls in and watches the contents of their brain squelch out suggests that he considers it a pasttime.

And yet, I find myself in awe of the Bishop. His strength is unparalleled by even the Lords themselves. He lifts the tooth of a dragon and a shield made of cast iron in one hand. And how on earth does he roll in that armour? People have nicknamed him 'Havel the Rock', for not even an Everlasting Dragon can so much as scratch his hide.

I respect his strength, lets put it that way. But I worry for his mind.

"How many have you killed today?" he asked me gruffly, as he raised his hammer aloft.

I think about it. "Can't remember," I admit. I lost count after the first hundred Wyverns.

Havel looks sideways at me. "Wyverns? They are simply sport! I meant how many dragons!"

I shrug, trying to retain some dignity in the face of humiliation. "Oh..." I begin. "A couple dozen, I should think..."

Within my golden armour, I curse my own ego. Lying truly was the worst sin a knight could commit.

I'd never killed a dragon. They were too strong for me. I was weak. Laughably so.

But I'll never tell a living soul this truth. I have respect and prestige, and I plan on keeping it.

But Havel seems somewhat respectful of this.

"Ha!" he cries. "We'll make a Lord of you yet, Ornstein!"

I'm unsure of how to reply to this, but find that I am not required to do so, as the air is suddenly perpetuated by a loud blast of sound. I instantly recognise it, as does Havel.

The horn of Gwyn. He is summoning us back, most likely to discuss the final assault on Yiriat.

I nod to Havel, and we turn back in the direction of the sound. All around us, I notice that the forest we once fought in was now torched and blackened. The work of the Witches of Izalith.

Without their archtrees, the Dragons have nowhere to hide.

We begin to walk, our feet crunching on the dying ashes. We pass the corpse of a gigantic red drake, a distant relative of the Dragons. Its eyes are still and lifeless, and its jaw hangs open, probably after its final screech was interrupted.

"One of mine!" Havel boomed loudly, making me jump from the contrast to the battleground's uneasy calm. "See?"

I could. Its wings were smashed and torn to bits, the ligaments broken from seemingly being smashed repeatedly.

Without a shred of doubt, the work of Bishop Havel the Rock.

Around us, very little life stirs. The occasional silver knight emerges from the piles of bodies. Some survive, others do not, succumbing to their wounds and falling flat on their face.

Don't get me wrong. We are winning this war. But it's been a massacre. For every one of them, we lost three of our own.

It's almost over now though.

I hear soft footsteps behind me. They are deliberately quiet, so I know that we're not dealing with an ally of the Dragons.

Before I can turn, Lord Blade Ciaran has landed straight in front of me, having dropped down from one of the mostly combusted archtrees.

She whips round, and starts to laugh. "Scare you, did I Ornstein?"

I shake my head. "Some assassin you claim to be. Gough is less noticeable than you!"

I can tell she is frowning beneath her peculiar porcelain mask. "Well... I'm sure the three blue dragons wouldn't agree with you."

"Wouldn't?"

"They are no longer with us," she clarifies, running her hand gently over her curved Gold Tracer, which is coated with blood.

Havel begins to laugh heartily, shaking his helmet up and down. "She's better than you, Ornstein! Bested by a woman!"

I grunt, feeling slightly challenged. "Yeah, well... We shall see about that..."

Ciaran sheathes her Tracer, and we begin to walk again. As we pass a pile of dead Wyvern's, she takes the time to question us, overly inquisitive as she always is.

"How is Gough?" she crows. "Have you heard? How is Gwyn? Artorias?"

"Well," Havel replies. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

I can see the crowd up ahead now. A small cluster of shiny silver, the dim sunlight reflected off armour.

Just down this flat. We begin to trek down it, but then we see a figure approaching us from the distance.

I'd recognise the azure blue flaps anywhere. Artorias.

He reaches us, seemingly out of breath. He seems at a loss of words.

"It's... worn off now... where is Gough? Black dragon..."

I sigh deeply in irritation. "Artorias, calm thyself. Start again, you're making no sense."

But now he's staring intently behind us at something we can't see. I turn, much against my better judgement.

The ashes are being whipped up a fierce wind which is now blowing straight towards us from behind. There is a distant sound of wings beating, followed by a loud, blood-curdling screech.

Then I see it. A streak of black, silhouetted against the crimson orange skies. The descriptions I've heard are fitting. It look's exactly like a bat, and is now descending, like a bat would from its rafters.

I hear Ciaran take a long breath from next to me. Artorias places a comforting arm on her shoulder, which she is quick to shrug off. Havel begins to laugh.

"Well, it seems that this one will be the decider!" he declares. "Whosever shall slay this dragon shall be today's winner!"

"No," I hear Artorias say. "This dragon is no ordinary beast. This is Kalameet. They call him Fire Rain in their tongue. He is not a beast to fight alone, nary without a whole army at your side!"

It didn't seem like we had much recourse to do anything else. Kalameet crashed down to the earth, scattering the blackened dirt and several Wyvern skulls as his claws settled in the dirt.

His long neck swerves around to look at us, and we get a good look at his face. Ge is one mean-looking dragon. His snout is pointed and sharp-looking, reminiscent of a beak. He has curved horns and spines going all down his neck.

But, most strikingly of all, he has but one eye. A beady, unnerving orange glow in the centre of his face, that he was now using to stare us down. He was sizing us up.

The calm before the storm was always the most disconcerting period to live in.

There is a low snarl coming from the back of his throat. I imagine he is deciding whether or not to scorch us on the spot.

"Let's club him," Havel announces cheerily. He raises his Dragon Tooth, and is about to bring it down, when the orange light from Kalameet's eye intensified, and he was lifted straight from the ground and into the air, where he hung helplessly.

There is a nasty screeching sound, coming from Kalameet's jaw. With a shock, I realise that the black dragon is laughing.

Then he does something I would never have expected.

He speaks.

"Puny... puny little knight..." he cackles, voice guttural and deeper than the abyss. "Feel my burn... let it tear you apart..."

"It can speak?!" I cry incredulously. "But it is just a beast!"

Kalameet opens his jaws, and I see a crackle of fire simmer at the back of his throat. "Is that so...? That we are the monsters, and you are the heroes? We dragons have ruled... for all eternity! Did you really imagine that we are just dumb animals?"

I lift the point of my spear into the Dragon's face, trying to look braver than I felt. "Put Havel down, now!"

Kalameet snarls. "You threaten me...?"

I nod, uncertain. I look over to Ciaran and Artorias, whose respective weapons are drawn, pledging their support.

Kalameet stares me down for a moment, then he starts to laugh cruelly again. "Very well. I shall put him down!"

And with that, he twists his head round, and sends poor Havel flying off into the far distance, where he crashes in a hapless heap. He seems okay, though. Perhaps with a loss of dignity.

Nothing a good clubbing won't fix.

Kalameet turns his head back to me, and his pointed tongue emerges from his pointed jaws, flicking and tasting the air.

"So... knights of Gwyn," he announces, apparently greatly entertained by the sound of his voice. "How about we have some fun? A little... game... To break the ICE! Hahahaha!"

Ciaran and Artorias give me the same look I was about to give to them.

I look up at Kalameet, whose one eye is still watching me, much to my discomfort.

"Why wouldn't you just kill us now?" I ask, my hands clinging tightly to my spear in anticipation of battle.

But he just laughs again, sending involuntary shivers down my spine. "Now that would be NO fun, would it?"

I can't figure this thing out. Is it trying to differentiate itself from its fellow dragons? Or is it trying to prove its prestige amongst them?

"What kind of 'game'?" I ask cautiously.

Just for a second, I see the faintest of glimmers in his eye. "A test. A chance to prove that you are right. If we dragons are mindless animals, or nay."

I shrug, unsure of where exactly this would lead. "What are you terms? And no tricks, dragon, or we'll run you through!"

"No... no tricks!" Kalameet roars. "Its very simple, actually."

He leans right in, so that his face is inches away from mine.

I try not to shit myself.

"If you can answer my riddle, then you get to live. Then, if I answer your riddle incorrectly, you get to kill me!"

"And what," I ask, worried and strangely enticed at the same time. " What happens should you answer this riddle correctly?"

Kalameet laughs, and his golden eye flickers.

"You die."

**Okay, sorry it's been a while again. I haven't had the time I wanted to update this story, but with the end of my exams tomorrow, that should change.**

**We're still jolly undead, aren't we?**

**Anyways, this might seem kind of LOTR, the way this story is heading next chapter. And that's good, because I like to picture Kalameet as a Smaug-like character: cunning and fiercesome simultaneously.**

**I hope you enjoyed this one, and I'll see you next time!**

**ASouffleToServethTwo**


	5. Four: The Eye of Calamity

A great silence descended upon the scorched plain as the Black Dragon wrenched his head back and laughed violently and horribly. I looked over at Ornstein and Artorias, who were watching with similar discomfort to my own. None of us wanted to give this fiercesome beast a sense of prestige by defeating us in such a way.

Despite my fear of the monstrous creature, I felt my mouth form words beneath my porcelain mask. "Seems then that you have all the advantages here then, Kalameet." As I spoke his rough-edged name, I felt shivers running all the way down my spine.

He looks down at me with that ghastly orange eye, and I feel it boring into me. "Everything to gain," he says, chuckling to himself.

Ornstein points his spear threateningly at Kalameet, and when the dragon notices him, he whips around and snarls.

"Who's to stop us running you through right now, dragon?" Ornstein questions loudly, sounding much braver than I feel.

Kalameet appears to narrow his eye. "You wouldn't so much as scratch my hide before you were incinerated. Try it, I dare you." His words invited challenge, I could tell. He didn't care whether this transcended into a battle. He was playing with us, because he was certain he would win.

But I wasn't about to let that happen.

"We accept your challenge," I announce, much to the horror of Artorias, who comes over.

"Ciaran, are you crazy?" he cries. "I am a knight! I fear mine-self no match for this kind of challenge!"

I put my hand on his azure-armoured shoulder. "Then stay back, Artorias. I can handle this."

Ornstein snorts, lowering his spear from Kalameets face with much resistance. "Doesn't make a damn difference if we can't figure his one out."

"We will. We have to," Artorias states wearily. "I tire of this battle. If this is how it ends, then let it end with friends."

"Friends!" scoffs Ornstein. "I wouldn't call you friends for as far as I can throw you. You are my allies in a battle only, and as such, I would prefer to die fighting!"

Artorias looks over at the golden knight, and stares daggers at him through his helmet. Ornstein returns the glance, and neither backs down for a good minute. "War is all you have, Ornstein. I pity the man that praises the battle."

"They made me the captain for a good reason you know, Artorias. Because I have intuition. Because I don't let the battle wash over me. I sweep over the battle, carrying it away. My tactics are unmatched even in Gwyn's squadron."

"Keep a hold of that ego will you!" I scold, barely able to listen for another second. "Both of you! Put your petty squabbles aside, and pull together. For the Lord Gwyn!"

I know that this will get Ornstein's attention. His sense of honour ensures that he will never take Gwyn's name in vain. Sure enough, the golden knight folds his arms, and looks away from Artorias. The azure knight, however, continues to look stubborn, yet reluctantly stands at my side.

Kalameet is laughing. "The knights of Gwyn!" he roars amusedly. "You are like children! How am I supposed to be scared of you!"

I ignore his taunts, and look him straight in the face. "Are you ready?"

He stops laughing, and stares back. "Yes. If you can solve this riddle, then we proceed to the second round. I fear thee no match, however!"

"Silence, Wyrm!" Ornstein shouts. "Bring it on!"

"Very well. Engage your ears."

_**{What always runs but never walks, often murmurs, never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a mouth but never eats?}**_

Ornstein looks dumbstruck. "Can we have another?"

Kalameet laughs. Then- "No."

Ornstein's ego looks to have taken a heavy blow. He isn't the smartest in our bunch by any means. Even the lumbering giant Gough has more intellectual capabilities. He just stands there, attempting to look as if he might know the answer.

I look at Artorias, who is scratching at his chin whilst resting his arm on the hilt of his greatsword. He too looks perplexed.

I'll admit that I don't have much of a clue either. When I think of 'bed', I think of the sea. But that doesn't match with the other descriptions. And yet, I'm getting the impression that the answer is somewhat affiliated with water.

'Often murmurs, never talks'. What does that mean? Water doesn't talk, does it?

Artorias looks at me, and I conclude that he is reaching a similar deduction. He looks at Kalameet, who is watching us all closely with a shiver-inducing grin. "Can we confer?"

The dragon stares at Artorias, like he is the dirt on the end of his nose. "By all means."

Artorias walks over to me, and we begin to whisper in hushed voices.

"It's something to do with water, right?" I say.

Artorias nods. "Methinks it might be a lake."

I shake my head. "No, a lake doesn't run. It is still"

Not that I've ever seen a lake. I've only heard about them, in the hope-driven stories of crestfallen knights around the campfire. Supposedly, there's one up north, that can only be reached by those who are not looking for it. A mirage. Where the archtrees grow taller than ever, and the water is so deep that all manner of creatures live within it.

I allow the faintest of smiles to grace my lips. It must be beautiful. One day, if at all possible, I'd like to see it for myself.

But if it's not a lake, then surely...

"I have an idea," I whisper to Artorias, who appears himself to be stumped. "Do you trust me?"

He looks at me, and nods. "Of course."

I look at Ornstein, but he's just sulking, and refuses to look at me.

So, with some confidence, I face Kalameet, eyes to eye, and give my answer.

"A river."

For a couple of seconds after I speak, there is ominous silence. I get the impression that Kalameet likes gravitas, and his entire challenge drips of overinflated ego.

But then, he smiles toothily and roars. "Correct. River is the answer."

Ornstein speaks up so as not to look like he is an empty armour suit. "Forsooth, have you even seen a river, dragon?"

Kalameet whips around. "Of course. The rivers of this world are pure, and clean. We keep them that way, so as to preserve our age of ancients. You filthy vermin will destroy everything you touch. That is why you cannot win."

Seeing this bitterness towards our kind, I take the somewhat dangerous opportunity to make our intentions clear. Perhaps I can end this war right now. "You must know that we do not wish for you all to die. The dragons may live alongside us. There is no reason why we fight but misunderstanding of each other's aims. If you do not fight, we may share this world.

I see Kalameet's gaze flicker for a moment, but then it glows orange intensely again, and I know the hope is lost. "You are monsters. You are a plague. Fire should have stayed in the muddy earth below, and you with it."

Artorias looks at the black dragon before us, with appears to be pity. He isn't like the other knights. He is a man of humility, and compassion. I've seen it with him and that wolf of his, Sif. He really is a good man, and the fact that he is a knight of Gwyn can cloud this truth to others.

"You must know that the battle's end is nigh, Kalameet," he cries. "There is no need for you all to die. If you do not surrender, however, you will. It is sadly inevitable."

Kalameet snarls, and digs his claws deep into the earth. His sudden aggression alarms me, and I grip my Tracer while I see Artorias and Ornstein reaching for their own weapons.

"Enough!" he roars. "Let us finish this game so that I may send you back to the fire from which you were born!"

Right. If Kalameet won't be swayed, then we must defeat him with a riddle of our own. However, the problem which I have si that I know of none. And as I look round, and see the defeat expressed in Artorias and Ornstein's' slumped positions, I realize that neither do they.

I think Kalameet knows it too. Damn lizard.

"What is it?" he says softly, but with a fire in his throat. "Didn't you think you'd get this far?"

Honestly, I didn't. Maybe this was always meant to be. That the dragons that we have hunted so mercilessly for so long would be our end.

"Enough of these games, dragon!" I hear Ornstein cry. "We are knights, not your playthings!"

Kalameet growls menacingly, a horrible sound emanating from the back of his throat that sends convulsions down my spine.

"If you will not play, then you will burn."

Artorias looks nervously at Ornstein, whose aggression and defiance of being intimidated is clear in his stature. "Ornstein, what are you doing?"

Ornstein's head whips around to see Artorias. "If you are afeared of this black beast then so be it. But I am a knight of Gwyn, and I will not let it's insolence stand."

He turns to face Kalameet, and stares straight into his solitary, orange eye, which was piercingly staring back.

"Do you worst, reptile."

At this challenge, all pretence of a civilised state of mind disappears from Kalameet, and he throws his head back and roars loudly, shaking some of the rocks at my feet and sending them flying across the ash-blackened plains.

Ornstein thrusts his spear forward, gashing Kalameet in the front left leg, provoking a demented hiss from the dragon's snapping jaws. With one quick swipe, he smashes his claws into Ornstein, and the golden knight is sent sprawling backwards into a heap, where he lays, buried beneath Kalameet's gigantic paw.

With notable reluctance, Artorias turns his greatsword round in his hands and runs at Kalameet. The black dragon sees his approach from and raises his other claw to fell him. Just as the big, black foot comes down, Artorias ducks and rolls right underneath it. Reaching the dragon's underbelly, Artorias proceeds to plunge it straight upwards through the dragon's breast, piercing it straight in its lungs.

Kalameet roars in agony, but the sound that would have once terrified me is now nothing but a hoarse whisper of what it once was.

I run towards the swaying dragon, and with a flurry of quick swipes from Tracer, I cut Kalameet's toes away, freeing Ornstein from within their grasp.

Begrudgingly, the golden knight allows himself to be pulled to his feet by a maiden, and together we pull away from the black dragon, who is losing the control of his body and starting to fall over.

I quickly scan the area for Artorias, but I cannot see him.

"He's still down there!" I cry, horrified. "He's going to be crushed!"

Ornstein straightens himself up, and with a quick sweep of his spear, is back on his feet. "Not if I can help it!" he yells, before running back towards the same beast that had him trapped only mere seconds ago.

"Ornstein, no!" I shout, far too late to prevent anything.

Ornstein approaches Kalameet's flailing torso, and catches a brief but telling glimpse of blue beneath his collapsing belly.

"Artorias, hang on there!" he exclaims, before pushing his spear upright into the gap between the dragon and the blackened ground. I can see what he's trying to do, but it truly is an act of suicide. His spear is strong, but it cannot prop up a dragon for nearly long enough.

But despite the foolishness of his actions, he is away, crawling beneath the black, scaled torso and out of my sight.

There is a long moment of silence that is only penetrated by the bloodthirsty snarls of Kalameet as his bodily functions fail him. Then, I see the familiar red crest of Ornstein's helmet emerging from beneath the dragon, followed by an azure blue flash. He's done it. Somehow, he's done it.

The pair barely make it out in time before Kalameet finally collapses, making the ground shudder and whipping up a black surge of ash and rock. His body is lifeless, and not one muscle stirs.

I run to the two knights and hug them each in turn.

"You're both idiots!" I shout, laughing despite myself. "You could have been killed!"

"Me?" Ornstein proclaims, back to his boastful old self. "Takes more than a dragon corpse to finish off Ornstein the Dragonslayer!"

Artorias, still panting like a hyena, clasps the golden knight on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. "My sincere thanks, Ornstein. I was certainly a goner if not for your intervention. You have certainly earned your title today."

Ornstein shrugs, and begins to wipe his spear's tip with his gauntlets. "The knight's code decrees that I must always help a damsel in distress, Artorias."

The blue knight starts to laugh, shaking his helmet as he does so. I start laughing too, if for no other reason but Ornstein's hypocrisy.

I hear the sound of heavy boots behind me, and I turn quickly with alarm. But it is only Havel the Rock, accompanied by two silver knights and that giant archer, Gough. He seems pretty cheesed off.

"Ah!" he says, seeing Kalameet's lifeless form. "The black dragon is slain. A pity. I was just on my way back to bash it's skull in for myself."

Artorias turns to face the stocky knight. "That won't be necessary, Havel my friend. Ornstein has killed it for us."

Havel seems stunned. "Really? Ornstein killed this beast?"

I expected Ornstein to say nothing and claim Artorias' gift to him, but the golden knight surprises us all and speaks up. "The kill was not mine this day, Havel. Artorias is the man of the hour."

Havel looks confused, and I wonder if the whole concept of modesty and decency goes right over his metal-clad head.

"Ah, whatever. But this is excellent news. With the black dragon slain, the path to Yiriat is clear. We can end this war. Tonight."

He's right. I never thought I'd live to see the day. No more fighting. No more killing. I can go visit the lake up north. My duties... could be over at long last.

Artorias too seems pleased. Ornstein looks pretty much indifferent to the entire conversation, as he cleans his spear with all of his concentration.

"We must inform the Lord!" Havel declares. "But first, there is something I must see, for myself."

I watch curiously as he walks slowly over to Kalameet's corpse, his armour clunking with every step. He goes straight to the dragon's head, and points with his enormous club at his closed eyelid.

"I have heard much about this!" he shouts as he gestures to the eyelid. "Kalameet's secret weapon: The Eye of Calamity."

I exchange a look with Artorias, who shrugs.

"The eye of what?" I hear Gough say in his deep, guttural voice.

"Calamity," Havel clarifies, trying to look like an expert in the field. "A power unheard of for the dragons, it grants them fleeting telekinesis. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Ornstein grunts. "If you say so."

"I should like to take this eye with me. For my research. Perhaps such power is viable to be harnessed."

It is well-known amongst the knights that Havel has an unsound fixation with the power of the dragons. His club, which is in fact a tooth from one of the first dragon kills he ever scored, is proof of this. But what he would want with Kalameet's eye goes beyond me.

"This is not the time!" Gough grumbles. "The attack will take place in a few hours. This is a fool's errand, Havel, and you know it."

This seems to make Havel angry, as he spins around and explodes at Gough. "Silence! You giants have no say in the work of knights. You are second-class, do you understand!"

Gough seems scorned, and I cannot blame him. To be attacked from his own side must feel pretty bad. I certainly never took Havel for a racist, but then again, I must reiterate that he has an **unsound fixation. **

Havel looks at all of us in turn, as if daring us to challenge him further. Satisfied that we had no such intention, he turns back to Kalameet's closed eyelid.

He raises his Dragon's Tooth into the air, and in the moment, he looks exactly like an executioner. The image is unparalleled.

_**Then the eye snapped open.**_

Havel had mere seconds to react before he was surrounded by an orange glow and sent skyward.

"No," I hear Artorias say. "It can't be."

But it is. The black beast I had thought to be dead was climbing back onto its feet, it's wounds healing and sealing themselves before my very eyes.

The silver knights have begun to charge the beast, their spears held aloft, ready to impale the dragon back to it's grave.

But Kalameet isn't going to make the same mistake twice. This time, he resorts to using his black flames to scorch the knights. When the blaze strikes them, I lose sight of their figures, abut when it clears, my eyes find their charred corpses lying face-down in the dirt. I try not to retch at the smell of burnt flesh that is seeping into my nostrils.

Havel is smashed onto the ground repeatedly, ironically by the same telekinetic powers he was admiring a few minutes ago. Kalameet seems to lose interest, and he is thrown away into the distance.

Now the black dragon turns to us, and Gough. The four knights. His hatred of us is clear in his glare.

Ornstein is backing away now, terrified of the creature that he could not kill. "How are you alive?" he whimpers.

"The thing about us 'lizards'," Kalameet states, landing on his front two legs with a bang after going bipedal for a moment to scorch the silver knights. "Is that we tend to be... 'everlasting'"

Then, with no warning, he suddenly pounces forward, and I feel his claws curve around my waist. I try to struggle, but his clutch is overpowering, and I feel lightheaded as the blood is squeezed to my brain. There is a rush of wind that I barely notice, and I feel my stomach drop as I leave the ground.

All I can hear is the sound of Kalameet's bat-like wings beating rapidly. The sound is like rolling thunder.

And then, my vision blackens, and I can feel no more.

**To be Continued...**


	6. Five: The Council of the Dragons

**Chapter Five: The Council of the Dragons (Part One)**

Base camp was a solemn place upon our arrival. We were an army close to victory, but you wouldn't know it from the exasperation and exhaustion evident in their faces.

All around me I saw Silver Knights huddled and crouching on the ash-blackened floor. Some had fared well in battle; others had not, with gory red burns pierced through their once gleaming armour.

There were definitely less here than yesterday evening. I remember counting six-hundred; now there are fewer than two-hundred.

Clearly both sides had been massacred today. And I'd thought we'd had the upper hand.

My greatbow was feeling heavy like a stone on my back, and fatigue swept throughout my entire body. I was definitely ready to sleep.

Even if it should be a restless night.

My comrades were looking weary as well, I noticed. Ornstein, normally driven by pride, was dragging the hilt of his spear in the dirt. Artorias was staring out into the horizon as he walks, his attention clearly elsewhere. As a result, he nearly trips on a charred- black rock in his path.

"Steady there, Artorias?" I ask, as the blue knight picks himself up slowly and grunts.

"Fine. I'm fine. Keep moving," he grumbles, wiping himself down.

He's taking it the worst - what happened to Ciaran. He thinks its his fault, that he should have made sure Kalameet was dead.

I can't blame him for his guilt. Everyone needs a finger to point in times of grief like this. But he should know: it really isn't his fault.

Only that black bat is to blame for this.

Gwyndolin is waiting for us as he approach. His golden crown glints in the setting sunlight, serving as a blindfold for the horror that surrounds him.

He is scribbling frantically on a roll of parchment as we near, and only looks up at us for a brief second to say: "Fifty-six."

"My lord?" I ask, uncertain as to whether he will take exception to being interrupted.

He glances up at us again, and his mouth curls into a tight frown, as if only actually noticing who we were for the first time in the meeting.

"Yes?" he snapped. "What is it, giant?"

I really don't like Gwyndolin. The way he calls me 'giant'. It may well be true, but no'one else feels the need to emphasise it to my face. He is the quirky type, quick to lose his temper yet incapable of rallying any loyalty from any of the knights.

It's mainly because of his status as a 'daddies boy'. Gwyndolin thinks his birth rights allow him to look down on everyone, and bark nonsensical orders. In truth, not even Gwyn himself is fond of his child. The rumour is that because of Gwyndolin's affinity for the moon rather than the sun, Gwyn finds himself unable to respect his son.

But yet, his ego carries him on through. Even now he's just staring at me expectantly, a bemused smirk on his lips.

"We must speak with your father," I answer, trying to avoid direct eye contact. "On a matter of urgency."

Gwyndolin snorts, before returning his gaze to his parchment. "He's occupied right now."

I look at Artorias and Ornstein, who shrug together.

"Where might I find him?" I continue, desperately trying to wring some useful content from Gwyndolin's stubborn mouth.

"How should I know?" he quarrels, barely bothering to divert attention from his scribblings. "My place is not on the front line. I am in the dark about these things."

Ornstein pipes up out of impatience and stress. "A coward."

Gwyndolin throws him a look of pure disgust. "I have a noble role. Who are you to judge, Dragonslayer? No blood is spilt by my hands, and yet without me this battle would fall apart. Become disjointed."

Artorias, normally a man of respect and tolerance, likewise loses his patience for the whiny god. "You count bodies, Gwyndolin."

The Darkmoon God ignores Artorias. His full attention is now back on his writings, and it's clear to all of us that his usefulness to us has dwindled to naught.

We turn our backs on him, and return to the centre of the plaza. We take position by a collection of shields and daggers. As I watch, a giant wearing a metal helm brings a large wooden hammer down on a lump of steel, sending out sparks.

This must be the blacksmith who forges our weapons. I've never met him before, but I would like to. Seeing as we share both race and a love of crafting, I predict we would have much to talk about.

After a few moments, it becomes apparent that the conversation has moved on without me, as when I detract my attention from the smith, I hear Artorias' raised voice penetrating the silence.

"It's my fault, Ornstein!" he is shouting. "You must let me search for Kalameet myself!"

Ornstein is waving his arm in sharp dismissal. "I'm sorry Artorias. But anyone can see that it would be suicide. That dragon has slain hundreds of our kind, and apparently is untroubled by the clutches of death itself!"

Artorias' voice wavers, and I can tell he has seen the reason in Ornstein's words. "But... Ciaran..."

"She is probably dead by now," Ornstein declares matter-of-factly. "Probably for the best, as I cannot imagine the tortures suffered at the hands of the dragons!"

Artorias slumps, and sits on the ground heavily, his fatigue finally seizing control of his body.

Ornstein turns to me. "We must find Lord Gwyn. The dragons are at their weakest since this war began! We must take action!"

I nod, but then all-of-a-sudden a new voice perpetuates the air.

"Hail my knights! I am glad to see thee alive! I had been afeared of the worst."

I instantly recognise the voice, as do Artorias and Ornstein, who instantly rise up to attention, and straighten their spines.

I hear the chinking of armour, and know that the downfallen Silver Knights have likewise noticed the arrival, and are at arms.

The voice is deep, but not unpleasantly so. There is an aura of authority and confidence in the way it speaks, and is unmatched by any of us except one person.

Our lord hast returned.

Ornstein kneels at Gwyn's feet. "My lord!" he cries, his admiration and loyalty overcoming him.

Artorias sticks his greatsword in the dust, and gives a full salute. "Lord Gwyn," he affirms.

I too give Gwyn my respects, and the Great Lord gives a bellowed chuckle.

"At ease, soldiers!" he tells us, and we all relax.

I am pleased to see our Lord return basically unscathed. He has claw marks running all the way up his armour and tower shield, but seems unharmed on the flesh, save for a few minor burns. His grey beard is looking quite tattered, but yet retaining of its youthfulness. His sword's blade is caked in sticky red and blue liquids: blood and venom.

"One of those drakes nearly got me earlier!" he declared. "But I managed to behead it just before it had the chance."

Ornstein can barely contain his enthusiasm for his duties. "The path is clear my lord! Yiriat is in our sights!"

But Gwyn is no longer listening. He is looking about him, confusion spread across his face.

"My lord?" Ornstein asks.

Gwyn turns to Artorias, and from the knight's unwillingness to meet his gaze, I can tell he is anticipating the question before it is even asked. And is dreading having to answer.

"Where is Ciaran?"

* * *

The second I opened my eyes, I knew I was no longer on the ground. The nauseating vertigo; the canned wind blowing cold in my face.

I hate heights. I've never told anyone this, but I can't stand them. It's not like I have much of a choice. After all, a good assassin should fear nothing.

My back ached from lying on a hard, stone floor for an extended period. I attempted to stand, but my bruised and fatigued limbs gave out on me in seconds.

Staring upwards, all I could see was the dull white fog that was the sky. In an undetermined direction and distance, I could hear the faint sound of roaring flames.

And then, all of a sudden the tranquility was shattered as a loud, rasping groan came from next to me.

Turning my head with much difficulty, I was much alarmed to come face-to-face with a gigantic, bloodied maw.

A dragon.

Suddenly I felt my strength rushing through my body again, and I leapt to my feet, adrenaline surging in my veins.

Alas, there was no threat. The dragon before me was dying; gruesomely so. There were bulbous, purple lines all over its scales, and its eyes were a lifeless grey.

The beast opened its jaws as if looking for aid, then slumped again, a river of blood running from its open mouth.

I've seen this before. This is, without a doubt, the work of the Gravelord Nito and his miasma of death. A terrible poison to any living thing, it quite literally saps one of life until there isn't a breath in the body.

Barbaric as I'll admit it is, the process is winning us the war. For this is the only way to prevent the dragons from being reanimated by Yiriat's necromancy. The only sure way to kill them.

Turning my attention from the stricken beast, I look about my surroundings.

I'm in some sort of dragon burial ground, where enormous skeletons lie half-buried in the white, grainy sand and huge stone pyramids mark the dead.

Strange. I'd never have imagined the dragons as being so advanced. Yet, I have underestimated their prowess before, much to my disadvantage.

Remains of what used to be archtrees are scattered all around us, leading me to believe I am in the midst of a forest. Except, this forest is in embers, and not a single plant has escaped partial incineration.

This place might have been beautiful once. But now it is just another victim of our war with the dragons.

As difficult as it is to admit, Kalameet had some truth to his words. We do destroy everything around us in order to reach an end.

Kalameet.

I'd forgotten about him. He'd brought me here, hadn't he? Where was he now?

"You see this?" a voice rumbled from somewhere above me. "You bring this upon yourselves. You vile creatures and your poison."

My eyes rolled skyward, and sure enough, were met with a black, scaly beak and a giant, orange eye.

"Kalameet," I confirm. "Why have you brought me here? Why not just kill me? You can't guilt me to death!"

The Black Dragon laughs coldly from his perch in the smouldering archtrees. "Oh don't you fear, your death will come soon. But first, the deaths of all of your friends and kind. Don't you see the trap that you have become? You will destroy them. You."

I bunch my fists to suppress my anger as the Dragon taunts me with the mention of my fellow knights. "They are too smart for you, lizard. They will not fall right into any kind of trap."

A spluttered cough from the dying dragon behind me distracts my attention from the Black Dragon momentarily, and I am alarmed as my eyes turn back to where he was seated and find him gone. In my panic, I spin around over and over, trying to relocate the scaly beast before he relocates my head.

"Do you know what this place is?"

I hear the jagged voice from somewhere around me, but in an undeterminable direction. Whilst trying to locate it, I answer. "Some kind of graveyard?"

I hear a swoop of gigantic winds, and sand is blown up all around me as Kalameet leaps across the skyline and into the fog on the other side of the clearing.

"Graveyard?" comes the coarse reply. "You truly have no idea what you are dealing with, do you?"

"Why don't you come and face me dragon?" I yell into the dense fog that cloaks it. "I will not play any more games with you."

"You think this is a game?" All of a sudden Kalameet is right in front of me again, and a stare of deep, intense hatred bores down onto my person from his orange eye.

"The very extinction of my kind? This is a game to you?"

I feel the intense urge to break his glassy gaze, but find it impossible. So instead, I try my best to contain my fear and stare the dragon straight in his eye. "We have already told you, Kalameet! We do not wish to have to make the dragons extinct! We only wish to have a place in this world that we have only just begun in. If that place is alongside you, then so be it. We only kill you because we didn't anticipate understanding from you."

"Oh?" Kalameet is flexing his claws, and I predict my time is running low. "Is that the truth? Or is that the lies that you've been forcing upon yourself, to the extent that you now actually believe it yourself?"

I pause, considering his words. No. No, he's wrong. He must be.

"Ask your precious Lord Gwyn," he continues. "Ask him why this war began. Then tell me that you didn't have a choice."

And with that, the Black Dragon takes flight into the air and disappears into the fog again, leaving me alone with my numerous thoughts.

* * *

Gwyndolin coughs loudly into his white, gloved hand and silence descends upon the ramblings of the assembled knights.

"Our lord wishes to speak now," he declared sharply. "There will be quiet."

Despite his orders, it is still a good few seconds before we are quiet. Like I have said, no 'one respects this whiny wretch.

Moving across to the side, his father, The Great Lord Gwyn takes his spot, and there is complete and utter silence across the entire five hundred or so of us that are left. Not a single breath can be heard, and a pin could've dropped audibly.

"Soldiers," Gwyn begins, his voice a booming beacon of authority and hope. "Comrades, knights. And friends. Across this war I have seen what you are all made of, and I am proud that I fight alongside such true and noble spirits!"

There is a unanimous cheer started by Havel by the Rock thrusting his gigantic tooth into the air. Gwyn waits until it settles down before he continues.

"Victory lies before us today. The Council of the Dragons must be desecrated and disbanded, so that the scourge Yiriat and his necromancy may be finished off. For good!"

Another cheer. It's clear to a blind person just from the energy in their cheers despite their intense fatigue that they love and respect their lord, and are eager for this war to end.

"To achieve this end, we must fall into a formidable formation of my own design. The entrance to the Lake where the Council is hidden out is guarded heavily by Wyverns, Drakes and the Black Dragon Kalameet, who has scarpered back to his keep with one of our own. For this, he must pay. Do all you can to distract and conquer these beasts, whilst myself and my elite team will break through and lead the attack on Yiriat himself."

There is a hushed commotion between the knights as to what this will involve, but Gwyn silences it quickly with a slam of his fist.

"I know that you will _all_ make me proud today, regardless of how many you should kill or maim. This effort is as an army. And every soldier has importance."

Only because of Gwyn's popularity is the matter dropped by the knights. If Gwyndolin had given the order, I imagine things would be much different.

"Now," he continues, his eyes finding us near the back of the crowd. "My elite team will consist of Ornstein, Artorias, Gough and Havel. I trust that they are happy with this choice?"

I certainly have no qualms with it. As I look around me I see the Dragonslayer at arms and looking pumped, and Artorias is quietly turning his blade in his hands, which I take as a sign that he is eager for blood. I can't blame him, after what happened to Ciaran.

"Very well!" Gwyn booms. "Our time is now, knights. Tonight, we fight for the right to exist in this world! To belong, and to have a home at long last. Together, we will drive the lizards back to hell!"

A huge roar of applause and approval echoes across the blackened dunes upon which we stand.

"Then lets **move out!"**

In an instant, the Silver Knights are clunking forward, their spears and their swords drawn and at the ready. We also begin to make our way forward, but hold back so that we may unite with Gwyn and Havel.

While I wait, I take my sling off my back, and begin to count my many stone arrows. Ornstein is applying resin to the tip of his spear to improve it's battle durability. Only Artorias seems out-of-it, and he kind of just sits there, in deep thought.

I notice him, and try to be as encouraging as I can. "Artorias, Ciaran is probably still alive. Kalameet will want to use her for something. But we won't let him, okay?"

But there is no consoling the azure knight. He is well-and-truly in a slump. He looks up at me, and even with his helm in the way, I can see the pain in his face.

"No, Gough. You don't understand. I... I never told her... How I really felt..."

"Oh." I have no words for this occasion, for I have never been in love myself. I can only hope that his lovelorn heart doesn't slow him in the heat of battle.

Havel the Rock arrives beside us, and begins to boast about the number of dragons that he is going to squash today. I ignore him, for his casual racism and disturbing obsession with dragon slaying is most unappealing. There is the pounding of soft paws on the ashes, and then a large grey shape whizzes past me and heels at the feet of the crestfallen Artorias. I hear a sigh from Ornstein.

"He will slow us down, Artorias," he insists.

To my great surprise, Artorias actually agrees.

"Sif, I cannot and will not see another of my most dearest friends die because of me. Please, I beg of thee, head back now, before it is too late."

The Great Grey Wolf whines and nuzzles Artorias with his snout. He isn't budging though.

"No, Sif. Go! Please, go!"

The wolf gives him one last longing look, and scurries off back to camp. Ornstein gives Artorias a slight pat on his shoulder.

"He will be safer here. You have done the right thing."

Artorias snorts, and refuses to look at Ornstein. "Makes a god-damn change, then."

At last, Gwyn makes his way down to us, but he is pursued by his two sons, who are quarrelling amongst themselves, and clearly getting on the Lords' nerves.

"Gwyndolin, no!" he shouts at his golden-crowned son, who recoils at his father's aggression. "You will get in our way! Take your archery and go with the Silver Knights!"

"What about me, father?" his second son, who was numerically his first-born, cries. "May I come?"

Gwyn sighs. "What could thou lend to this that none of these gentlemen can't do better?"

His son looks spurned. "Father, I must prove myself to you!"

"There will be another day for that, my son!" Gwyn declares. "No go, both of you! I have a job to do, and so do you."

After a moments pause, the two sons slunk off and away from their father, still loudly bickering at each other.

Gwyn turns to face us, and offers an apologetic smile. "I am sorry about them. They have an issue with being side-lined in favour of yourselves. I expect petty jealousy is at play here. It's for their own good, really. Bah! Maybe one day they shall understand."

He pulls his enormous greatsword from its sheath, and coats it in lightning from his left hand. Then, he turns outwards to face the direction of the Council, and points forward. "To glory, my knights!" he shouts energetically.

"For glory!" we all cry.

And then, we're off.

* * *

I have been wandering for hours now, with no end in sight. Every nook and cranny looks the same, and the identical archtrees that tower above and around me only serve to insinuate that I am imprisoned, and they are giant watchtowers. I certainly can't use them as a guide.

A bloodcurdling screech echoes nearby. I grip my Dark Silver Tracer tightly as a blood-red Wyvern bursts through the mist at me, its jaws snapping viciously.

I roll beneath its outstretched wings, only just in time to avoid being evisceration. Recovering quickly, I am able to thrust my Tracer into its left calf, bringing it crashing into the dust with a strangled screech.

Another quick jab into its torso, and the beast lies still.

Still panting, I remove my mask and wipe away the beads of sweat that are rolling down my forehead. The encounter has revitalised my adrenaline supply, and I find myself much more alert, my senses coming alive and sharpening like the point of a spear.

Otherwise, I would never have heard it. The faint throbbing sound, coming from a few metres ahead of me.

My curiosity getting the better of me, I creep forwards slowly in its direction, Tracer at the ready. As I get nearer, the sound gets louder, and I can physically feel the energy exertion, in the forms of waves that crash into me and brush against my skin.

The sensation makes me quite nauseas, and my primal instincts scream at me to turn back and leave the unnatural presence alone. But yet, I press onwards, biting my tongue to suppress my fear.

I catch my first glimpse of it as the fog clears. A tall, greyish crystal stuck in the middle of the ground. There is a strong magical force coming from its centre, and a faint white light is given off.

I find myself entranced by it. It has a mystical beauty to it, even though I know not what manner of creation it is. It is like nothing I have ever seen in my life. I want to touch it.

And so, barely aware of my surroundings any longer, I lean forwards and gently touch the crystal with my left hand. Instantly, a sharp pain runs up my arm, sending shockwaves through my entire body.

I instantly recoil, although I fear the damage is already done. My arm is numb, and I am unable to move it of my own accord.

I should never have been so careless around a peculiar object such as this. Who knows what sinister purpose it may serve. I suppose... I should probably destroy it.

But the second my Tracer makes contact with it, the metal creaks and groans, and turns a bright orange. Immense heat scalds the glove in which I hold my Tracer, so I drop the weapon on instinct. It clatters to the ground, now completely deformed as if it had been toasted in a furnace for a good hour.

I feel rather defenceless now. I am used to dual-wielding both my Gold and Silver Tracers.

In spite of my troubles with the crystal, I take a step back from it. Who knows, it might explode next!

Looking around me, I notice that the fog is less thick here than before. Its almost like... The fog is in place TO conceal the crystal...

Bah! What I am thinking? That's utter nonsense! What kind of magic could the dragons command to do this? The sheer strength of such magic... I find it hard to believe the lizards are so advanced.

Unless the Dragons are not responsible for this at all...

From the shapes and arrangements of the stone along the floor, I discern that this is no natural occurrence. No, they appear to be arranged in a particular pattern. A circle, that runs the full 360 around myself. Almost like... a shrine of some sort.

My observations of the floor mean that I am intensely shaken when a loud voice rumbles from behind me.

"Strange, isn't it?"

"Kalameet?" I shout to the fog. "Show yourself, lizard!"

I hear laughter, but it sounds nothing like the Black Dragon. No, this sounds much more intelligent, refined. Calculating. And thus, infinitely more terrifying.

"Kalameet?" it scoffs. "I think not! You harbour me great insult to mix me up with that soldier!"

"Then what does that make you?" I cry. "The Dragons are warriors!"

Another cacophony of chortles. "Well, you could say that I'm not really a dragon! I'm not treated like one, anyway."

I squint into the fog, but still can't see the creature to which I am addressing. "Then what are you?" I ask, cautious not to provoke my own death.

"A scholar! A thinker! A do'er!"

I feel hot breath on my neck, and wincingly turn around to meet my maker.

What I see, however, blows my mind altogether.

This creature is definitely a dragon, but it has one of the most grotesque appearances I have ever seen. No wonder it hides itself in the fog!

For a start, it has no scales. It looks more like a newborn baby than a grown, fearsome beast, but the image of what is essentially a naked dragon is a terrifying one to say the least.

Even more strangely, it lacks front legs. Instead, it appears to move on a trio of tentacle-like appendages that sprout from its base, giving it the distinct look of a sea creature.

The 'dragon' notices me looking at his scaleless body, and lowers his neck so that his head is face-to-face with my own.

"A pleasure it is to meet you, Lord Blade Ciaran. I am Seath. I have heard much about you."

I was startled at the remarking of my name. "Do I know you?"

"Perhaps not. I am the second-best kept secret of the Everlasting Dragons. They are ashamed of me, and confine me to this place."

"I imagine I would probably remember you if I did."

Seath narrows his eyes. "You refer to my scales?"

"No, I was talking about your beautiful eyes," I retort dryly.

There is a pause, and I wonder if Seath is considering the option to incinerate me. Then, against all the odds stacked up against me, the Dragon actually begins to tear up, throwing his head back and laughing deeply.

"Ah, I like this one!" he says with a toothy grin. "She has a fire in her belly. I like that!"

"So," I continue, trying to play for time. "What is number one?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said you were the second-best kept secret of the Dragons. What is the first?"

Seath smiles sinisterly, and looks over my shoulder. "You're looking at it."

I turn back to look at the crystal, which is still glowing and throbbing in the murky fog.

"The Primordial Crystal."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	7. Six: The Council of the Dragons II

**Chapter Six: The Council of the Dragons (Part Two)**

One's undoing, is always of one's own making.

This is not a statement. It is a fact. The countless numbers of Silver Knights who I have seen fall before me, whether they succumb to incineration, crushing, laceration; it doesn't matter. In the end, they died because their own abilities failed them. Their bodies could no longer take the strain; and so, they died.

As I draw my greatbow out to full length and cock an arrow into the rest, I begin to wonder if the same fate is to befall me. What if my bow should be broken? What use am I then?

I am hoping that I will never have to find out.

I release, and the gigantic arrow is sent thunderingly into the hide of the red drake that blocks our path. The creature roars in agony, and is forced to land, it's wingbeats beginning to visibly falter.

I ready another arrow, but the beast's hard scales do not get to receive further puncturing from my arrows. And that would be because the tip of a certain Dragonslayer Spear had already beaten me to it.

Ornstein grunted as he heaved his spear out from the beast's lifeless ribcage. His shiny golden armour is now clouded by a splattering of drake blood.

Which just so happens to be blue.

The ground shakes and I am caught off balance. But I needn't have worried, for it was only Havel the Rock, finishing the job by taking it's head clean off it's body.

Lord Gwyn is pulling a face, and I suspect that even he is slightly repulsed by the sociopathy of his knight. "Is that really necessary, bishop?"

"Entirely, my lord." Havel brings his hammer up in the air for one final smash. "This one won't be able to reanimate, that's for sure."

I turn away as the final blow is loosened, and the horrific squelching noise that follows indicates that the drake will, indeed, be unable to return from the dead.

In my desperation to avoid Havel's excessive gore, I begin to take in my surroundings. I had been subconsciously noticing them change for some time now, but only now do I fully appreciate the unearthliness of the area.

Thick fog awaits us in the distance, and the only scenery that penetrates it are the impossibly tall archtrees, which ascend into the unknown above for an incalculable length.

"This must be it," Ornstein declares. "Ash Lake. This is where the Council is held out."

Gwyn nods, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "'Where land meets sky and water runs the clearest of all.' I do believe you are right, Ornstein. This is most likely it. Be on your guard, my knights! This place is ancient, and is almost certainly protected by traps so terrible they are not even worth the thought."

We all nod in appreciation of the situation, but it is only a good few minutes later when we actually move.

I don't think any of us really had much choice. The fog welcomed us as much as it warded us off. An uncertainty waiting to happen.

Gwyn went first, leading the charge like a shepherd. Ornstein followed him swiftly, and then Havel and I after him. I gazed back at Artorias. The azure knight was begrudgingly following at a slower pace, dragging his heels wherever possible.

I called out to him. "Artorias! Hurry! You do not wish to get seperated from us in this fog. You may be ambushed, and I fear you would stand no chance in such a situation!"

The knight's head rises to look at me wistfully. "Good," he retorts, before returning his gaze to the ground.

I sigh, but press onward. Unashamedly, my stomach is doing somersaults at the thought of what might lie ahead. Considering none of us could see two feet in front of us, those thoughts were infinitely stronger.

The unknown always was a great deal more dangerous of a foe, after all.

* * *

(-Meanwhile-)

"What...?"

I fumble for my words, but find nothing.

Seath is much amused by my cluelessness. But it would be impossible for me to tell if I didn't know otherwise, because his facial features were a constant contortion of eery joy. He looked like he was always smiling; maybe he was. All I knew was that despite his peculiar appearance, I felt no inclination to lower my guard any time soon.

"The Primordial Crystal," he repeats; patronisingly so.

"Yes. I heard you. But I don't understand... What exactly is it?"

Seath cackles; a frankly disturbing sound that wouldn't feel out of place in an asylum. "It is their secret weapon. It generates a field across all of them; sustaining their scales of immortality, and granting them insulation from death."

I frown. Was this not similar yet completely wrong to one of our earlier assumptions?

Seath seems to catch on to my stream of consciousness, and I wonder (not for the first time) if he was a window into my mind.

"No. You're prior assumptions were incorrect. Yiriat does possess the greatest magical prowess of all of us, but even he is not strong enough to maintain a field of that strength and size."

I nod, finding it hard to believe that this peculiar crystal could be the cause of all of our troubles.

And worrying, because the seemingly indestructible rock could prove much harder to destroy than a creature of flesh and blood.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, ever aware of the possibility that I may be running down the white dragon's patience, and thus, the expectancy of my life.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You're one of them!" I retort, keeping my hands trained at my sides for easy access to my Tracers.

Seath bares his teeth, showing his slight irritation. "No, I am not. By species only am I related to those monsters. There exists no alliance between us. You have my word."

When I don't reply, he brings his grotesquely distorted head closer, exposing me to a gust of his equally rancid breath.

"Don't you trust me?" he says softly, but with a knife's edge of severity.

I pause. "You might be able to see why I find it difficult."

He stares long and hard at me, trying to figure me out. His blue eyes may not be as intimidating as the orange eye of Kalameet, but I feel no less comfortable whilst under their gaze.

Eventually, he speaks. "Come. There is something I wish for thee to see."

He turns around awkwardly on his trio of 'legs', and begins to move off slowly, in the same manner of which a snake would slither.

I think about trying to make a run for it, but decide against it. After all, I am half-blind in this fog, and despite his disconcerting mannerisms, I sense that he has no direct intentions to harm me.

Yet.

So, with some reluctance, I follow. He must hear my footsteps, because even though he doesn't turn around, he begins to speed up a little. Makes me wonder whether I'm a rubbish assassin, or if he is just incredibly self-aware. I wouldn't rule out the latter; his appearance may throw off onlookers, but there is a distinct air of intelligence around him that renders me feeling relatively inferior in comparison.

He doesn't stop when I pause to check for my Lloyd's Talismans. And he certainly doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to the horror that sweeps me as I realise that the pouch has split. I am unsure as to when this might have happened, but it's irrelevant really.

The damage is already done.

Taking away the means of which to heal is arguably my most effective line of defence as a Blade. My Tracers defy armour and break the skin of my enemies, but the bleeding which follows is easily counteracted without the powers of the Talismans.

If I should run into a Wyvern now, I fear that I will be eaten whole.

Luckily, no Wyvern's appear, and Seath comes to a stop ahead of me, signalling the end of the journey. I look around, trying to identify some aspects of importance; something to explain the significance of the area to our visiting. Unfortunately, the fog deprives my vision, and I feel more lost than ever.

Seath turns back to me, and I take my opportunity before the dragon can speak. "What is this place? Where have you taken me? This is a trap, isn't it?"

Seath chuckles, and my blood runs cold impulsively. "A trap? In a manner of speaking."

I take out my Tracers faster than the emaciated dragon can blink. But when he does, he does so in force, and I feel the hilts slipping from between my fingers, magnetised by a power far beyond my prowess.

My Tracers meet the air and are engulfed by the fog. I ball my fists, and prepare for hand-to-combat should the need arise.

Not that I would have any chance against the sheer enormities that were Seath's hands.

The white dragon is clearly tickled at the prospect too, as he makes no attempt to disembowel me for my resilience.

"Don't bother with those. You won't need them here. The trap is not for you."

"Where is here?" I ponder aloud.

Seath gives me a strange look (well, as strange as a creature like him can differentiate), as if only just understanding that I cannot see around me.

"Well," he booms. "Allow me to shed some light on the situation."

His words couldn't be more apt; he pushes his palms together, and a ball of white light several metres in length is drawn from within and sent to float in the air in front of him.

I blink twice to make sure I'm not imagining things. "Did you just..." I stammer. Words escape my grasp.

He just nods curtly. "The world is changing. Soon, conjurations like this will spread far and wide. But the task of the light is not to be marvelled at. It is to illuminate. Have a look."

I do so, and find that not only does this supernatural light dispel the dark, it has also swept back most of the fog. Now, I can see the landscape upon which I stand.

And wish I couldn't.

This is no place of mystery or intrigue. No grandiose title can defy the solemn truth that this place is a graveyard. And not a well-kept one either. I hesitate to call it a graveyard, because the word has connotations of order and neatness; this place has none of that. The bodies aren't even buried, and there are no monuments marking them like in the other graveyard. Bones the size of my entire body jut out of the ground at many angles. I take a step back out of shock, only to find my boot jammed through the empty eye socket of a dragon's skull. It's face is a contortion of agony, where it's jaws part as if it were in the midst of screaming.

I am completely overwhelmed by emotion that I had never expected. I've seen dead dragons many times; I've just never seen them quite like this. No blade or bow killed these beasts. This is the work of something much more terrifying.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle my gasp. Nausea grips my entire system, and I feel the great urge to sit down; an urge that my spiked adrenaline refutes.

Seath's eyes flicker, and I begin to speculate whether seeing this bothers him at all. Judging from his crooked grin, I can't imagine him shedding many tears over the corpses of his fallen brothers. In fact, against my better nature of judging people by their appearance, I'd say he's enjoying himself.

This revelation startles me out of my silence. "Is this a graveyard?"

He snorts. "More of a battleground, don't you think?"

"But a battle between who?" I muster.

"That," he declares, a cold confidence in his eyes. "That is the question. But I think you already know the answer."

I believe so too, but I am uncertain at the moment of how to form the words. Perhaps out of his condescendence, or his repelling pride, Seath takes it upon himself to elaborate.

"There are some amongst us who believe it unwise to continue this fight. That the Age of the Ancients has come to it's end, whether we like it or not. That we should no longer attempt to tempt our fates, and should, by all means available to us, ensure our survival. At any cost. Therefore, a war unending with an opponent that outnumbers us would hardly be a beneficial prospect for us. As you can see, these beliefs were not shared by the majority of the dragons."

I nod slowly, taking in his words but not really able to process them. My mind was ticking off elsewhere.

"Disagreements arose. Those who wanted to flee our forest homes, and those who wanted to hold their ground and drive the invaders out. It was a conflict within a conflict, and in the end, left our ranks fewer and weaker than ever."

"What about you?" I ask, certain I already know the response. "Where do you stand."

Seath closes his eyes briefly, and exhales. "The Age of Ancients is ending. Clinging to it is futile, and will surmount to nothing anyway. For you are not the true enemy, only an amalgamation of it. Time. Light. Dark. Heat. Cold. You can see it happening already, if you're not ignorant or in denial. The world is changing, shifting around us. As relics of a bygone age, we either adapt, or fade away."

I'm starting to see the whole picture now. And it isn't pretty.

"There are great powers at work now. New energies, which we can harvest and make our own. You have seen my control of light; that is just the beginning. The foundation of what can be achieved. The only limit is our knowledge. And we can adapt to comprehend it."

"So, what," I begin, much afeared of the path which I now travel, and it's final destination. "You want the same as us?"

"And I am willing to fight for it."

"Yiriat would not agree."

"He is beyond interference now."

"Where is he?"

Seath's mouth tugs into a smile. "About two feet away from you."

I turn quickly, but of course, I had no reason to be nervous. Like everything else in this graveyard, the King of the Dragons was very much dead.

I somewhat regret never seeing him in his prime, for he looks to have been a magnificent beast. Now though, his body has taken a horrific form, and all over his body black crystalline shapes break the skin, clearly having exploded from within. His giant horn, once a symbol of pride and glory amongst his kin, is now a bloodied pulp worthy of no recognition.

I cross my hand over my face. Respect for a fallen enemy is to be no less significant than that of a comrade. Especially one with such an enduring legacy.

I turn away before the decaying body can inflict me any further psychological harm. _"How long?"_ I stutter with some anger.

"Excuse me?"

"How_ long_ has he been dead?"

Seath looks thoughtful. "I'm not entirely certain. Time is convoluted. A long time, let's put it that way."

I'm suddenly overcome by anger. All this time, we were mistaken. Holding back from the final assault until we knew we were 'ready.' What fools we were. Dwelling in short-sightedness while hundreds of our men fell worthlessly.

"If what you say is true, then the dragons must know that their battle is futile! Why do they carry on?"

Seath shrugs, a movement that looks particularly wrong on him. "As I said; they are unwilling to accept change, and hang desperately to their Age of Ancients. The black dragon, Kalameet, he is the most stubborn of all of them."

I feel butterflies flapping in my gut at the mention of that toothy name. "Yes. We've met."

"And you're still alive?" Seath was incredulous. "That is most extraordinary. Mercy is not a quality adopted by Kalameet. He hates your kind more than any other dragon I've seen; more than would be deemed healthy, I expect."

I'm curious now. "Why?"

"That is not for me to say. Nevertheless, beware the fate which may well before you should you come across this winged psychopath again. I fear you would not last long should you tempt his wrath once more."

* * *

(-Nearby-)

**"Over there!"**

My shouts snap my comrades right out of their thoughts, and instinctively they all reach for their weapons.

"What is it, Gough?" Gwyn enquires.

I squint, so as to try and bring the object of my attention into closer view. "There is something in the path ahead. I can see it glistening."

Ornstein stretches his own head, attempting to see it for himself. "Could it be some kind of a trap?" he asks aloud. It is unclear whether he is addressing us, or himself, but it doesn't really matter, since his deductions were immediately dismissed with a wave of the hand from Gwyn.

"Unlikely. I encourage you all not to underestimate the dragons in most circumstances, but applying this kind of intelligence to such unmannered creatures is hardly appropriate. I think you may be allowing your instincts to turn into paranoia, Ornstein."

The golden knight sags a little, disappointed that his lord - to which he serves so loyally and has the upmost respect for - would dispute him so quickly and thoughtlessly.

Gwyn strokes his beard with one hand, whilst keeping a constant alert with his greatsword in the other.

"Nonetheless..." he mutters, "Perhaps we should take no chances. Gough, test the waters, if you will."

I nod, and draw back an arrow. When I inevitably release it, it sails powerfully through the air and crashes straight into the metal object, sending it skywards along with a large gathering of charred earth.

I allow myself to laugh a little as the fruits of my labour prove most enlightening. "A trap? Ha! This is no dragon design, I'd recognise it anywhere! It's one of Lloyd's mystic Talismans. You know, those little trinkets?"

Gwyn acknowledges my discovery, but with an unusual distaste. "I would prefer for you not to speak of my uncle with such disregard, Gough."

"I mean you and your family no offence, my lord," I assure him quickly. "What I mean to say is that the Talismans have a particular... composition, that allows them to be easily recognised."

"He is right, my lord," Havel admits, somewhat begrudgingly. "Far and few between carry such items with them. Your Blades being one such example."

Gwyn reaches the shiny silver Talisman, and places it in his open palm for all of us to see.

"It is Ciaran's," Ornstein asserts confidently. "I'd know her possessions anywhere. She must have been through here."

"Then she may still be alive!"

I'd almost forgotten about Artorias. The azure-blue knight had taken a solitary stance throughout the journey, but now his trademark sociality was back in force, his uplifting spirits in accompaniment.

Gwyn smiled kindly at his knight. "Indeed. Then we must move with haste! The Council will not entertain her for long."

Pocketing the Talisman, Gwyn takes an enthusiastic step forward, before stopping short in his tracks with no prior warning.

His sudden pause is disconcerting to us, and Ornstein is the first to voice his concerns. "My lord? What troubles thee?"

Gwyn turns to us, his finger upon his lips. It is then that I hear it for myself. The thunderous beating of wings; the demonstration of an agility and athleticism that could frighten the Gods themselves.

Ornstein and Artorias are looking equally distressed. Havel clings to his giant club with all of his strength.

We all know exactly what to expect when the figure emerges from the fog.

We just don't want to see it happen.

But, sure enough, the thick air is soon penetrated by a steely orange glow. The ground heaves as the sharp, black claws find their place. And, not long after, a familiar mug looms out of the fog, and gives us the coldest, longest stare of our entire lives.

"So, knights of Gwyn," Kalameet begins, in an unapologetically fierce rumble. "It comes down to this. You will destroy us, and then you will destroy our world."

"That isn't how it is, Kalameet," I say. "We have no-"

"Silence, filth!" he screeches, cutting me off mid-speech. "I have had enough of you and your words. Now, you may taste mine!"

The fire erupts from his mouth with such relentless agility that under most circumstances, escape wouldn't have been an option. But we are knights of Gwyn, and we don't play to circumstance.

Havel's torso-length greatshield serves as an umbrella to the upmost effect, and Kalameet's 'fire rain' barely warms our flesh.

Even the black dragon is somewhat impressed. "You should be dead," he remarks.

"Not as dead as you!" Artorias roars, unsheathing his sword and charging towards Kalameet's legs.

Kalameet appears to relish the opportunity to swat the knight away like a fly, but is completely deprived of such a chance when his claws miss Artorias' chinked armour and meet the ground.

The blue knight wastes no time in plunging his sword straight into Kalameet's leg. The black dragon hisses in agony, but even as he bleeds out from his damaged calf, I can see the wound sealing right before my eyes.

We won't make the same mistake again. I nod to Ornstein and we leap into action. The Dragonslayer uppercuts Kalameet's recovering leg, sending him crashing to the ground, and exposing his fleshy underbelly.

I prop an arrow in my bow, whilst Gwyn grabs hold of the beast's flailing tail. His hand turns a vicious orange, and before long, Kalameet's tail is sliced right off, the fleshy tip now scalded black.

Two arrows impale the struggling beast in its neck, before a third takes it straight in the ribcage.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Havel the Rock, club in hand, smashing the dragon right in it's calamitous eye. I hear muffled cries of: "Die! Die! Die!", and before long, the beast's head begins to slump, the intensely recognisable light in its eye beginning to fade.

"Don't be fooled twice!" Ornstein cries. "Take off its head!"

Havel doesn't need asking twice; he does so with pleasure. In the process, I notice him chink of a piece of the eye and pocket it.

At last, we all cry in triumph. The Black Dragon is once and truly slain, and not a single drop of our blood was spilt.

Artorias once over slams the hilt of his blade across Kalameet's lifeless face. "That was for Ciaran you little shit."

I suppose that we would have stabbed up the corpse further, if not for the intervention of Gwyn, who placed a commending hand on Artorias' shoulder.

"It is done, my boy. She is avenged."

Artorias nods, but doesn't seem entirely convinced.

Then, a sudden movement behind him makes him jump back faster than one of my arrows.

"Dear lord..." Gwyn mutters, incapable like the rest of us of comprehending the scene unfolding before us.

Kalameet, is once again reassembling himself. His belly expands and pops my arrows straight out, the wounds they left healing straight after. His claws are scrabbling relentlessly in the dirt; I would imagine, looking for his head.

Gwyn wastes no time in throwing the Lloyd's Talisman straight into the gap between his head and his neck. It explodes, and a blue fog is emptied into the space.

I'm surprised when it does actually seem to work. The rest of Kalameet's body has healed, but is non-functional without it's head. And the head has not reattached.

There is a pause longer than any of us can bear - our eyes all on Kalameet's disembodied head - before the dragon's eyelid snaps open, revealing a particularly angry-looking orange glow.

Ornstein prepares to plunge his spear straight through it, but Gwyn puts his arm on the spear and pushes it away gently.

"He cannot harm us in this form. Makes an ideal situation for us to question him."

Artorias snorts. "He will not help us."

"No, he will not," Gwyn agrees. "We will have to be more... persuasive."

"My lord, it is a disembodied head!" Ornstein cries, stricken with disbelief. "Are we even to assume it can speak without its body?"

"Everlasting." The croak escapes Kalameet's bloody lips like trapped air. "We are... everlasting."

"Ah, good." Gwyn lifts the edge of his blade to Kalameet's head. "I see you still have that rambunctious tongue of yours."

"I am at no'ones mercy," the head snarls, spattering the ground with blood. "I cannot die, therefore I am not afraid of anything you may possess to try and harm me."

"You're not wrong, Kalameet," Gwyn continues. "You aren't affected by death the way we mortals are. But I would hazard a guess... that pain is still applicable?"

"I... will not... talk..."

Gwyn snaps his fingers, and Bishop Havel the Rock leaps to his attention.

"He says he will not talk, Havel! Change his mind for us, would you please?"

Havel chuckles, but it is not a sound that indicates joy. Rather the sadistic pleasure of an unbalanced individual.

"It is no problem, my lord," he says, taking his Dragons Tooth in both hands and raising it high above his head.

"This one will pay for messing with Havel the Rock."

I try to tune out the squelchy impacts and bloodcurdling screams that follow, but the sheer volume makes it impossible. At least my helmet spares me the sight when I pull it down.

"Where is Ciaran?" Gwyn demands.

Kalameet shoots daggers of pure hatred at us all, but relents no further.

"She is somewhere within this forest, but whether she still breathes is a question that I am unable to answer."

Artorias makes to charge the creature, but Ornstein grabs his arm and holds him back.

"Believe me, knights of Gwyn," he continues, licking his lips as he imagines our disassembled corpses. "It would be kinder if she were dead. There are far worse things in this forest than myself."

Then, he laughs maniacally, and I wonder if his multiple skirmishes with death have left his mind in a broken state. This is certainly not the creature who had challenged us to answer his riddle all those days ago. The intelligent gleam in his eye was gone, replaced by something far more vile.

Perhaps, in the most literal sense of the term, we had awoken the beast.

"I fear we don't have much time," Gwyn says, alluding to all of our thoughts. "We should go."

"What about the headless wonder over here?" I ask. "He will surely reassemble before we can return."

"Then we shall kill him again," Havel retorts, looking with utter disdain at me. I silently remind myself not to waste any humour around him again.

Kalameet watches us leave; all the more disconcertingly without his torso to accompany him.

And then, out of the corner of my eye - when he believes no 'one is watching - I see Havel bring his club around one more time. There is a short but swift bone-crunching sound, followed only by silence.

I fall in alongside Artorias, and instantly I notice the change in his posture. He seems more alive now than ever, rejuvenated by the news we have all received. I suppose, it is just further proof of how uplifting hope can be to a fallen spirit.

"Is it not fantastic?" he remarks, turning his head in my direction. "The tides have truly turned for us."

"I'm glad to see the spring is back in your step, Artorias," I reply. "But with no intention of clouding it once again, perhaps your enthusiasm is best saved for the victory. I do not wish to see my friend crushed again."

I can see he is touched by my compassionate statement; yet, he is also reluctant to acknowledge it.

"Ciaran is alive," he assures me. "I can feel it."

I nod, truly wanting to share in his unbridled cheeriness. But life has taught me to be harder than that, and where Artorias sees one conclusion, I see a thousand.

"I can feel it," he repeats, glazing his hand over his sword like an old friend.

The only thing that I feel is the biting wind upon my face, and the invisible bristle of stray ashes as they cross my face.

* * *

(-Nearby-)

The quiet that hung between myself and Seath had once been comforting. Now, it felt like a wall was in place around me, ensuring that the inner workings of the albino beast remained foreign - and therefore dangerous - to me.

There were no further words to say. The scent of Genocide was enough to darken my horizons, and where I had once almost enjoyed the dangers associated with bantering the dragon, now I wished for no further contact, should it be helped.

He had not confessed to it yet, but there was no doubt in my mind that the bodies which lay about us now were of his making.

Whether he aspired to prove a point about his cunning is unclear. When faced with an enemy like Seath after a lifetime of killing simple beasts, my whole view about antagonism found a very new perspective. Never before had such complexity troubled me. There was a coldness in his eyes that was most off-putting. You'd never know until it was too late whether his brain or his brawn was his most invaluable weapon. Both, I was assured, were equally deadly.

After such a long while hearing his voice again was enough to shock me.

"They are coming."

"Who?" I ask.

"Your friends. The knights of Gwyn. Artorias; Ornstein; Gough; Havel."

Relieved as I was to hear those names again, there was one flaw that I felt compelled to correct.

"Havel is not my friend!"

Seath actually laughs at this. His eyes flash a deeper shade of blue as he sees a thousand different shots of the Bishop lined up for his viewing. One look at the fearsome club in his hand, and Seath shares in my sentiment.

"He certainly is a rugged type, is he not?

"He defines it."

Seath turns to me, a strangely emotive face replacing his signature grimace.

"They will not see me as you do. There is a fire in them; they will only see a monster."

I am hesitant to speak my mind; to say that I find it difficult not to agree with them. Yet, I cannot bear the white dragon any malice, for it has shown me nothing but hospitality in return.

"I will ensure that they understand."

A brief smile flickers on his twisted lips. "My thanks."

Artorias is the first to come bounding out of the fog. His eyes find mine, and he rushes me joyously. I expect he would have hugged me, if it were not for a combination of chivalrous pride, and horror at the sight that lay behind me.

"Has this foul creature posed you harm?"

"No," I assure him. I'm not exactly sure how to frame my follow-up words, but I do my best. "He is on our side."

Artorias scowls; a look best kept well away from his chiselled features. "What have they been feeding you?"

"I am in my right mind, Artorias," I laugh. "Do you not trust in a friend?"

"Of course. I trust you completely Ciaran. But I don't trust THAT."

Seath is visibly spurned by his proximate pointing and name-calling. "As much as I adore your affectionate nickname, I would prefer it if you would call me Seath."

"What will Lord Gwyn say about this?" Artorias ponders. "A wisecracking, wingless white dragon claiming to be on our side. What's next? A talking cat commanding an army of tree-hugging bandits?"

"I fear he does not take me seriously," Seath addresses to me.

"What do you really expect of me, then? Prove that you aren't one of them. Give me some solid proof."

Seath grins, baring all his jagged teeth for the first time. This is clearly the moment he'd been waiting for.

"With pleasure," he says softly. "But first, I would like an audience with your leader. The one calling himself 'Gwyn'."

* * *

"Yes. I see. This is most troubling."

I am uncertain of what Gwyn refers to: my revelations about Yiriat, or the existence of an abomination of nature such as Seath. Either way, his joy at seeing me alive and well soon dissipated once I told him my story, and his eyes fixed for the first time upon the white dragon.

"My lord, forgive me, but is the solution here not most straightforward?" Havel says, interrupting Gwyn's thoughts.

"No, Havel," Gwyn sighs. "This is not a problem that can be solved with an execution. I am not morally inclined to kill this creature when it is clear to me that he poises us no threat in return."

"But... my lord, he is a dragon!"

"Yes, I see that Havel, and I fear that this truth makes you a biased source of advice to me."

"_He cannot be trusted_!"

**"That is enough!"**

Gwyn's sudden outburst shocks us all, even the notoriously sturdy Rock himself. "I make the decisions here! Don't you forget it!"

Havel is frozen to the spot for a few seconds, and in that space of time the look in his eyes is one of absolute and utter betrayal. Eventually, he looks away, a begrudging stain of hatred still smudged across his gaze.

Gwyn looks back to Seath. "Tell me, dragon, what reason can you give me not to believe my comrade over here? Why should I trust you? Humour me."

"I will be an invaluable asset to you and your new world."

"You'll have to be more specific than that."

"I possess special powers; powers that I believe can help you to shape a new world of your own design. The strong and the weak alike will be yours to control."

Gwyn makes a contemplating sound as he studies the strange creature and its claims with a close eye. "These powers of which you speak, how am I to prevent you should you one day wish to use them for ill will?"

"I believe I can teach others to use them too. I will share amongst a select few the shards of my soul; this should help in the birth and prosperity of these powers. Although, I hesitate to admit, doing so will weaken me irrevocably."

"Careful now dragon. I don't know what you appear to be suggesting, but I assure you that being powerful is one thing; being _too_ powerful is quite another altogether."

Seath smiles hesitantly. "Of course, my lord. You do not trust me yet. I will show you the value of my worth, and I shall start right now."

His hand reaches the Primordial Crystal, still stuck fast in the earth. But, with one forceful pull, the crystal comes free, and instantly, the strange humming sounds it made died, alongside the dull white light that it had held in its centre.

I feel the reverberations in the air; like a cogent force has been expelled. I notice all of the knights stumble back a bit as well. Whatever the dragon has done, it has had a profound effect upon the atmosphere itself.

"Knights; Comrades; Soon-to-be-friends." Seath has a calm appearance, but his voice betrays him, and I hear a slight edge of satisfaction and excitement in his voice. "With the removal of this crystal, I officially declare the end to this war."

I look around excitedly to my comrades, who too appear to share in my enthusiasm and deep relief.

Seath reiterates. "No longer do the Everlasting Dragons have claim to this earth..."

Only Havel is displeased, I notice. Despite my cheeriness, I see a darkness cross his face that leaves me more than a little concerned for his (and our own) welfare. I put aside for now, however. This is no time for pre-emptive worries.

_**"...It is over."**_

_**END OF ACT ONE**_

* * *

**So, with that part of the story over and under wraps now, I feel that the timing is perfect for a significant break. ****I have a three-week holiday abroad, but when I return, you will see the start of a new, exciting story arc as we head into the grand and mysterious beginnings of Lordran. **

**The first call, however, is to a specific duo of characters, who, it is fair to say, have a fairly significant and intriguing role in the proceedings yet to come. Is your interest piqued? Well, without directly giving too much away, I can reveal that The Army of Four shall return in... _'A Tail of Two Serpents' (August 30th)_**

**I hope to see you all then! Have a great summer, all, and keep on Praising that Sun!**

**-ASouffleToServeTwo-**


	8. Seven: A Tail of Two Serpents

**Chapter Seven: A Tail of Two Serpents**

_Close your eyes._

Imagine a place where the trees grow beautifully tall, and in a lush shade of green; where the water is crystal blue, unbothered by the dirt; where silence is the only sound you can hear, only the more enriching for it.

Now, imagine that place inverted. The slender trees, burnt to crisps; the water filled with blood, mud and rubble; the silence penetrated by the screams of the injured and dying. I cannot deny, neither ignore, the guilt that burns inside me like a scorching acid. This place was once clearly beautiful, and we have destroyed it.

Gough has christened it 'Ash Lake', after the orange glows that dance in its darkness. It has no other name; not one that we would understand. Perhaps a title sprung from a dying tongue; now, it would only fall upon deaf ears.

My greatest regret of this war is that it could not be finished peacefully. Not that I have killed, for I did so in the name of peace. Nor that I have seen others killed, for they died trying to preserve it. In the end, the end itself was the most bitter casualty.

Night has fallen now. We few survivors have gathered around the hollowed hole in the ground where the Primordial Crystal was imbedded. I counted fewer than fifty silver knights; from what I have heard, they were completely massacred. Fighting in an unfamiliar terrain as they did, I am hardly surprised. The dragons would have launched their attacks from the misty grounds which they had long known as their home. I try not to concern myself with the screams of the dead; the past is untouchable as far as I am concerned. With some reserved disappointment, I noticed Gwyndolin had survived, with next-to-no injuries. But then again, how damaged could you be if you were stood on the sidelines the entire time?

I digress. Bitterness is the last emotion I should be hefting right now; if for anything, it should be directed at the killers, and not the killed.

As if fanciful distractions might cleanse our dirtied souls, Seath has promised us a sight truly astonishing to behold. We are still waiting; four hours now. I get the impression we may be waiting a lot longer.

The scaleless beast has spent his post-war time so far slaving over the salvaged crystal. As best as I can understand the peculiar creature, he is trying to solve it. Trying to see how it works. It seems that his efforts have been fruitless; hours spent examining its every corner and vertex continuously has not proved worth his while.

But, even as I speak, he is sitting not far away, his claws scrabbling over the glassy surface, as if any moment now its inner workings will become coherent to him. Like the rest of us, I think he is trying to make something of what is left. To make sense of it, if indeed that even makes sense in itself.

All of us, just sitting in the dark, alone with our affairs. So, when the voice breaks the air, it should come as no surprise that we were modestly terrified.

**"Greetings."**

Ornstein is the first to move for his weapon, his hands wrestling the spear from its rest in the earth.

"Show yourself, dragon," he orders, pointing his spear threateningly towards the uncertainty of the dark.

His reply is a chuckle. The sheer pitch of the sound ascertains the size of the mouth from which it is emerging.

**"A dragon?"** it laughs heartily. **"Aren't they extinct?"**

I hear a sound from behind me akin to a gigantic shape moving along the ground. Even more disconcertingly, the voice to which it surely must belong comes from the completely opposite direction. Whatever it is, it is huge.

Everyone is on their feet now. Ciaran, her blades spinning in her hands. Gough, bow and arrow at the ready. Lord Gwyn, heaving his greatsword to his shoulder-height. Even Havel, brought out of his brood by the enticing prospect of gruesome combat.

"A coward as well as a fool?" Gwyn bellows out. "Spare yourself the pain, and give yourself to us now!"

The slithering sound returns, this time to my left. I hold my greatsword out, waiting to impale the trespasser on its sharp point.

_**"Put your weapons away, Gwyn,"**_ the voice says, somewhere off to my right. _**"It is not cowardice to avoid warfare where it is not waged."** _Strangely, the voice now sounds considerably deeper, and more smug.

The original voice returns, making it clear that there are, in fact, two speakers. **"We come in peace, seeking only to assist."**

Gwyn frowns, and his shoulders sag a little, but he keeps his guard up nonetheless. "I tire of the bloodshed," he admits, sighing deeply. "If you mean us no ill will, then will you not name yourselves?"

**"Gladly,"** the first voice declares. **"I am the Primordial Serpent Frampt."**

_**"And I am Kaathe,"** _the deeper voice clarifies. _**"We come to elucidate your fate. Do you seek such enlightenment?"**_

Gwyn looks around warily, disoriented by his inability to see his audience. "What are thee talking about?"

**"We come from a time before even the dragons,"** Frampt tells us knowingly. **"One day, we knew that their time would end. We created the Primordial Crystal with the intention to accelerate this certainty."**

_**"And as the successor to the dragons,"** _Kaathe continues,_** "You are poised to take their place as the inheritors of the world. A new age is dawning."**_

**"An age of fire. An age of prosperity. You can see it beginning right now. For the first time, darkness has fallen."**

Gwyn continues to peer out. I cannot believe that he might he taking this in. This is a hard pill to swallow. I don't trust these two as far as I can throw them.

**"As you may already know, your birth into this world coincided with the creation of fire. You possess the souls of Lords, do you not?"**

Gwyn nods slowly. "What of it?"

**"They have a far greater importance than you may understand. They represent the dawning powers in our world. The Witch of Izalith holds the soul of Life, a powerful catalyst of heat and cold."**

_**"The Gravelord Nito holds the soul of Death, an equal and opposite power to control the elements."**_

**"And you, Gwyn. You hold the Light soul, a beacon of the new age, to guide your people to magnificence."**

_**"But, there is... another..."**_

The second voice had taken on a strange excitement. The first, however, seemed greatly displeased by the outburst; in fact, it was almost sounded nervous.

**"That is only speculation, Kaathe. It is not fact."**

_**"Open your eyes, Frampt. For every force in the world, there is another of equal power and opposing purpose. The Dark Soul exists; or else, there would be no light."**_

If Frampt's face had been visible, I assume he would have rolled his eyes. His tone certainly conveyed disparagement. **"If it ever existed at all, it was surely lost in the fire. Do not spread bad vibrations without the means to explain them."**

Kaathe was quiet. Brooding, perhaps. Or in deep thought.

**"Bah!"** Frampt exclaimed, ending the silence abruptly. **"It is of no matter. Day and night shall pass the same without the corrupting influence."**

After that, he had seemed to have forgotten the purpose of his visit; I could make out the revolting sound of two slimy objects being rubbed together, like the gnashing of teeth. It disturbed me greatly, and I found my vigour evaporating faster than ever before.

"Do you want me to smash these creatures apart, my lord?" Havel enquired, sharpening the mood of the moment considerably, and debatably, unwelcomely.

"Always with the smashing," Gwyn remarked, giving a little tut. "Some things have to be solved with empathy, and intellect. With words, rather than swords."

Not for the first time that day, Havel was dismayed; disheartened, even. Fighting was all he had ever known. He had been born in one, and would most likely die in one. He took a seat, shaking his head slowly in something approaching bemusement.

**"I believe you will make a fine ruler, Gwyn."** Frampt seemed to be impressed. That, or he was a very good actor. I couldn't decide which; there was just something fundamentally perplexing about the entire affair. **"This age is yours; you are at its helm."**

Gwyn didn't look convinced. "What I am supposed to do?"

Frampt chuckled, a wet, guttural sound from deep in his throat that sounded out-of-place in the world somehow. **"This is the dawn of your empire. The fire is yours. Kindle it. Keep it burning."**

_**"Protect the day, or else the darkness will come to play."**_

They both laughed again, sending convulsions down my ribcage. Then, there was a soft rumbling, like a giant sack of potatoes being rolled down a hill. Frampt and Kaathe were gone. We didn't see them go, of course, but we all felt it. The sensation of relieving a giant load; like a chain around our throats had been unstrung. We all sat.

We all had questions nagging away at our vocal chords, but none of us quite knew how to place them so as to create a coherent sentence. The moment had passed, and yet, I felt like something bigger was only just beginning.

But, the night passed, relatively sleeplessly, and when I awoke, I did so with daylight piercing my eyes once more. But, unlike the morning suns we had all become accustomed to, this sunrise actually had a... brightness, to it. Where the beams graced the lake water, it sparkled, illuminating a bed of sand beneath littered with bones. The leaves that gathered on the floor were no longer an undiluted black, but a crispy brown, almost as if they had reclaimed a portion of their life.

I notice Ciaran is also admiring the new day. Our eyes meet, and her deep blue irises search mine, seeking answers to questions I long to answer for myself.

"It's beautiful," I manage, a smile creeping upon my lips. Ciaran returns it, and holds my gaze.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

The crunching of boots behind me made me well aware of Ornstein's arrival long before it came to pass. We too exchange a look, but the same passive glee is not present with the Dragonslayer. His face is a straight slate, no wonder or increment in it. When he puts his helmet on, I am relieved to be able to break the gaze.

Gough continues to snore, and no 'one wakes him. The moment will be lost upon him; each morning but another reflection of the last.

I feel a soft, tender touch against my hand, and I unclench it, taking Ciaran's hand in mine, and entwining her fingers within my own.

Nothing breaks this scene; I feel it pass gently, subtly, without a trace. We have seen what others may only dream of. The dawn of a new day.

The very first, day.

* * *

_High above, where the points of light had yet ceased to trouble the dark in the breaking of the day, a few dimming flecks of ashes blew, caught in an updraft. They shone, each of them with an identical light. And yet, they retained individuality. Somehow, besides their obvious similarities, they had gained some kind of independence. They danced about in the awakening sky, as if to celebrate._

_Cold eyes watched them. Two little, red holes, where life should have flourished. Instead, there was only death._

_One of the distinctive lights drew closer, almost like it was daring itself; it darted about in front of the monster's eyes. With barely a register, the speck was collected from the air, trapped within a pair of hands so dark they could have been mistaken for the night's sky._

_It would not be missed, he had decided. It was but one corner of the great shining outside. It held no significant importance of it's own._

_He watched as it died in his palms. Without a breath, or a whisper, a light had just gone out in the universe. It would not be missed._

_Then, the unexpected. The light burst back into life, and it tore at his skin, trying to tear it open. To feed; to drink. To reinvigorate itself. To have its revenge._

_He moved back from it, into the shadows where it would harm him no longer. There, he studied it, his eyes twinkling at last with something like awe._

_The light was no longer alone. It had become part of something larger. It had found purpose, and had stretched itself into the world._

_The corners of his mouth twitched. It ached as his skin peeled back; opened. His teeth lit up to the world for the first time, a dark green poison that seemed to consume the very air._

_He had taken his very first smile. He did not know what it meant, but it had felt good. Then, he pried further, feeling the air rush in and out of his open mouth, seeping into his pores and his bones. He felt as his senses came alive for the first time; smell, sight, touch. It felt good too._

_He had taken his first breath. And not his last, either. He did not know what it meant, but he felt as though he would._

_In time._

_It had felt good._

_He looked into the light, and it looked back into him; burned him. His eyes darted about, seeking sanctuary. Eventually, his head hit the hard floor, and he knew it had stopped._

_He didn't lift his head up again; just thought about the light. It was unfamiliar, but he knew what it meant._

_And it had **not** felt good._

* * *

**Welcome to Act Two! This section will explore the challenges faced by Gwyn and the knights in their new age, as dark forces gather to extinguish the light. I don't want to give away anything about the story ahead, so you'll just have to keep reading. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my take on the first meeting between Gwyn and the serpents. It was tricky to write, but a lot of fun.**

**Also, if anyone is wishing to duel with me and you have a PS3 (Master Race), then PM EllisNet. I'm keen to test you all out, after having been wiped out by ParagonEmil, who is, by the way...**

_A COMPLETE SCRUB_

**Good day, all.**

**ASouffleToServeTwo**


	9. Eight: The Age of Fire

**Chapter Eight: The Age of Fire**

Thunderous knocking separated me from my sleep. Wearily, and with much reluctance, I allowed my eyelids to be opened. My ears, still fuzzy from a good nights rest, are pierced by the sounds of a familiar, and unwelcome, voice.

"Ornstein? Ornstein, waketh up!"

Artorias. What does he want?

I sit up in my bed, dragging the cover with me. As I do so, I hear a soft breathing from just to the right of where I was lying, and then it all comes back to my in a flash of memories akin to a punch in the face. The booze; the dancing. The _blossom_. My honour would never live this down. Quickly, and with no restraint, I make effort to wake the courtesan, whose dull but rasping snoring will give the game up for sure. Her eyes flicker open, and she starts to speak, so I quickly move my hand to her mouth; feel her hot breath on my fingers.

"Don't say a word," I order in a whisper, trying not to sound unpleasant to the lass, and failing miserably. _"Get_ _in the closet."_

She looks puzzled, but when I raise my eyebrows, she obeys without a second thought, no doubt seeking additional payment. With her out of the way, I have the chance to calm down, clear my head, and pull on a dressing gown before Artorias bursts through the door.

He winces as he sees me in my state of unreadiness. "_Ah_," he mutters. "Perhaps I should have waited a little longer."

"No, really?" I snap at him, pulling the cord on the gown to tighten it. "What in Lordran do you want at this time?"

"Lord Gwyn has called for us, Ornstein," he informs me. "He wants to meet all four of his knights in his court in the cathedral in half an hour. I'm told he has an important task to impart."

"It had better be important," I say grumpily, acting like a rebel, but knowing that my loyalty to Gwyn will require me to do whatever he may ask regardless.

"_Half an hour_," Artorias repeats, as if I have the mind of a three-year-old. He is clearly trying to suppress a smug smile. The git.

He turns to leave, then turns back again, remembering something.

"Oh, and I really hope you're paying Daisy enough to stand in there. She's a hard worker, but then you really know how to crack the whip, don't you Ornstein?"

My face flushes red before I can stop it, and its all he needed to see. I clench my fists as he walks away, a spring in his ever-so detestable step.

* * *

The morning didn't get better either. Gough had beaten me to the breakfast buffet, and as a result, all the meat was gone. I was forced to essentially inhale some kind of revolting vegetable paste followed by a lashing of fruit juice, to remove all traces of the nauseating taste. Ciaran is already sat when I approach the table. Her eyes briefly cross me, before they return to her yoghurt. "Good sleep?" she asks, without even looking.

"It was," I reply stubbornly. "So, do you have any idea what this is all about?"

She shrugs. "Beats me. Although I heard that it had something to do with Havel."

I groan at this news. The Bishop is always the least pleasurable topic of discussion for a conversation taking place shortly after a meal. The thought of that icky green colour returning to visit my eyes again is enough to make me lose all of my appetite completely. I leave the table without saying another word. As head towards the door, I feel a pair of eyes on me. Not Ciaran's. I would never know if she was looking at me; her gifts, as a master assassin was invisibility, and anonymity.

When I look, I see that the eyes belong to a giant; not one that I recognise, however. He turns away the second that he notices me watching. Normally, I would've gone over and told him to keep his eyes to himself; but today, I lack the conviction, and the motor functions. I carry on.

Lord Gwyn is already assembled with the other three knights by the time I get to him. How Ciaran got past me, I'll never know. Havel the Rock stands at Gwyn's side, watching me with no discernible emotion as I wander over and take my place next to the knights. For a few seconds after my arrival, nothing is said, and the enormous hallway of the chapel is left in silence. Then, he begins.

"Thank you for coming at this early hour." Gwyn has a way of inspiring his troops, and so none of us grumble, even though we all know he doesn't really care. "I have an important task at hand, and I don't trust anyone here more than I trust the four of you. I assume you have all heard of Ariamis?"

"The painter?" Artorias asks.

"The same. I recently received worrying intelligence reports from Havel's troops about him; that he's been dealing with Berenike and Balder."

My stomach sinks, and I look around, seeing the same kind of horror in the faces of my fellow knights.

"The human settlements?" Ciaran asks, practically seething.

Gwyn nods, and puts his palms up. "Yes. Now, we are not to immediately assume that he is a traitor, or that these reports are entirely accurate. I need you to head to the North; find him, and bring him back to me. Alive, if preferable."

"My lord," Artorias says, bowing. "I fear entering into the northern kingdoms would be seen as an act of war."

Gwyn looks at him; it is clear in his orange eyes that he knows this already. "Then so be it. We've been on the dawn of war for years now. Do not be the first to imply hostility; but do not be the last to use it if necessary."

We all salute the Lord, and he beckons for us to leave, returning his attentions to a collection of maps. I feel Havel's eyes boring into me the whole way as I head for the door. Once outside, we all burst into life.

"Ariamis?" Gough mutters. "I can't believe he would do such a thing. He has always been so loyal."

"Not everyone is as they appear, Gough," Ciaran assures the giant. "I hope for the best, but fear the worst. He may have misled us all."

"But he's just an artist," I hear myself say, surprising even myself with my tone. "He doesn't know anything."

"Nothing military," Artorias replies. "But he knows the layout of the city like the back of his hand. _And_, he is a powerful sorcerer. Now, if the humans were to learn magic..."

"They won't."

We all turn to look at Ciaran, who is looking angrier than I've ever seen her. Something about humans really sets her off, but to know exactly what that was, I would have to know her a lot better than I do. "I'll kill them all if I have to."

Artorias lays a consoling hand on her quivering shoulders. "We don't doubt it, Ciaran. Yet, we must show them good faith before the edge of our swords."

"Agreed," Gough rumbles.

"Very well," I announce. "We will leave at dawn. Be ready; pack your supplies and meet outside the gates with a horse and all of your gear."

* * *

For a city named for sunlight, morning in Anor Londo certainly brought a different perspective to sunrise. Darkness was still digesting the lush green scenery outside the city gates as I rode out of them, chinking as my golden armour was shaken atop my saddle.

"You're late," Ciaran stated indifferently, as she sliced the branches from trees as if they were the arms of hapless soldiers.

"Morning to you too," I replied casually. "Where are Artorias and Gough?"

As I spoke, an enormous hunk of metal and wood soared past me and broke straight through the base of a nearby tree. Without further following the trajectory of the arrow, I addressed its archer. "Hello, Gough."

"Morning, boss."

"Where is Artorias?" I repeated, holding out little hope that the giant would know.

He frowned. "He isn't with you?"

"No. I have neither seen nor heard him since-"

The sounds of hurried footsteps silence me. I turn to look at the blue knight that is lumbering towards us, huffing and puffing, and practically dragging his greatsword in the dust.

"I'm sorry, Ornstein. I was-"

"Yes, you speak for yourself," I interrupt, looking at him from head to toe and tutting loudly. "Were you caressing Sif again?"

He pauses, absorbing my taunt like a bolt, then quips: "No. When I want to stroke something with lots of hair all over their body, I go to Daisy."

Steam practically explodes from my ears, and I am speechlessly glad of my lion helm which hides my reddened face.

"We're late enough already, Artorias. Get your act together. Come on, lets go."

Our horses begin to trot with an annoying lack of urgency, and conversation resumes behind my lead, where it thinks it cannot be heard.

"He's with Daisy again? Poor girl."

"I hope he didn't poke her eye out with his _spear_."

"Who knows the shit that goes down when Orny gets Horny..."

I grit my teeth together, but say nothing. This journey couldn't end quick enough. But of course, it ends up being four hours of arduous walking through a parched desert, where sand whips at my eyes and my skin swelters in the relentless sun. As we stop - about 3 and a half hours into our journey - to take a swig from our water satchels, Gough suddenly unhitched his bow, and loads it.

Alarmed, I seize my spear in my sweaty hands. "What is it, Gough?" I ask.

He raises one of his huge fingers to his lips, and straightens a palm, gesturing my silence. I look at Artorias and Ciaran, who shrug, likewise confused.

Slowly Gough begins lowers his bow, somewhat sheepishly. "Forgiveth me," he says sombrely. "Methinks I heard something..."

I fold my arms. "Gough, there is _nothing_ here. No _plants_, no _water_. Nor even **rocks**. What in the world could you possibly have heard?"

Suddenly, there is a rush of movement behind me, and sand cascades down my back. I don't dare to look, and only because of Gough raising his weapon, do I end up doing so.

My eyes barely have the time to focus before a horrendous clicking sound rings in my ears, and a blinding flash whips forward at me. Then, I'm on the floor, struggling to stand as dust swirls around my fallen body. Something heavy falls across my back, and I yell out in pain. Only when Ciaran pulls me out, do I realise the living horror in which I had just emerged from.

"Artorias!" I scream, as the image of the azure knight's twisted body is branded on my mind for all eternity. "No!"

He has an enormous barb protruding from his chest. A barb that almost certainly should have been in me. He _saved_ me.

Then I remember that the threat is still looming, and I turn quickly just as an enormous pincer smashes the ground beside me. I look up at the monstrosity to which it belongs, and feel my legs disappear from beneath me.

The gigantic scorpion, now drawing back defensively, is at least twenty feet in length. It's razor-blade front claws are comparable with my own body size, and eyes black as the night sky and the length of my hand stare emotionlessly into me.

Then, an arrow crashes into the scorpions back armour. Instantly deflected, the projectile only serves to royally piss off the creature. It hisses apprehensively, and leaps at me, claws swiping madly. Bracing myself for the impact, I raise my spear horizontally to my body, like a makeshift shield. The blow comes down against my barrier, and is instantly lessened, but the force is still great enough to send me sprawling. Luckily, as I hurriedly rise from the simmering sand, I see streaks of gold and silver between myself and the monster, and know that Ciaran has intervened.

Sickly, green blood explodes from the stump where the scorpion's left pincer had once been, prior to the timely swipe of the Gold Tracer. Before the creature could recover sufficiently, it also noticed the disappearance of its right mandible, and then its left eyeball. Finally, it noticed no more, and sank into the ground from which it had sprung.

Instantly, Ciaran is by Artorias' side. The knight is shaking and murmuring incomprehensibly as Ciaran carefully removed the stinger from his abdomen, and threw it away.

_"Arty?"_ she cried hysterically. "Can you hear me?"

Gough approaches, and studies the comatose form of his friend with despairing eyes. "He is in the thrall of some kind of hallucinogenic venom. We can't cure it here. We must reach Balder, quickly!"

I arise to offer my aid in carrying my fallen ally, but Ciaran spins on her heels, and I feel the piercing of her dagger-stare in my gut. She blames me. Quite rightly.

It is my fault.

"Hang in there," I find myself saying, quite certain that no 'one was listening. "You're going to make it."

"I hate not repaying my debts."

* * *

_- Anor Londo, The Secret Passage -_

The flame sizzled brightly upon its heath, illuminating portions of the darkened room. The blacksmith's eyes were full of worry, and a secret admiration. The fire was like nothing he had ever seen, and he was its creator. Yet, he was afraid. What act of prestige and recognition was committed in the dark?

"Keep going," the voice at his rear ordered.

"But, bishop-"

"_Silence_. Keep going."

The smith swallowed hard, picked up his brand, and continues to tinker. Before his eyes, the flame did continue to galvanise, swelling to a grotesque and repelling size. The black hue swiftly dominated the flashes of orange and yellow; anything that had previously given it the appearance of life. This was a fire that sought not to warm, or to cast light. This was a fire that would snuff it out.

"I... think it is fully formed, bishop," The blacksmith murmured. "But, I would highly recommend that we discuss with Gwyn before we start to use it in forgeries. The implications... are, frankly, frightening."

"Thank you for your help, and your recommendation. But I shall need you no further."

He barely even cried out as the hammer caved in through his skull, tearing out his flesh, and blood, and brutally stealing his life. The smith was still; almost peaceful in his death.

Havel turned away from his remains, and his eyes flickered to the flame. There, it danced and swirled, invisible forks like fingers of smoke and heat beckoning to him. Whispering; giggling. He felt it in his hand, and it was surprisingly soft to the touch. Viscous perhaps, but nonetheless, a gentle, lukewarm, tingle.

"This is it," he said softly. "The flame that the serpent foretold. The dark flame."

In his hands, he held triumph. Victory. His experiments had not gone to waste. Hundreds and hundreds of years, searching for the catalyst. Who would have thought that humanity itself would have created such an inspiring bond?

He wasted no time. He took the wooden club in his hands, and with the hammer of the fallen smith, he got down to work.

**TO BE CONTINUETH IN: The Scourge from the North**

**Hello, everyone! So, the saga of Havel the Rock is a most interesting story, mostly because so little of it is documented, and yet, the seeds of a great yarn were sprinkled all over the game, just waiting to be discovered. To say that one item inspired an entire story arc would normally be outrageous, but when this item is an Occult Club, and it was found inside a mimic for protection, alongside Havel's gear, we know we're in for a great tale. I hope I can provide!**

**Oh, and in last week's edition, I made some errors surrounding the user ParagonEmil. I described him as a 'scrub'. This is not true, he is a very honourable and skilled player, and never resorts to cheap tricks like BS-fishing or sorcery spamming. When I lost to him, I did so out of my own incompetence and inability.**

**He is however, on occasion, a spear spammer :)**

**ASouffleToServeTwo**


	10. Nine: A Scourge from the North

**Chapter Nine: A Scourge From the North**

Artorias has been speaking the tongue of a madman for the past few hours. There are brier glimpses of coherent language scattered in his sentences, but as time has worn on, these instances have become fewer and fewer. I don't want to think about what it means, because we're so close now. The desert has thinned out and the city of Balder lies ahead of us, thousands of tiny lights illuminating the grand shape.

Another hour passes, and then the tall oak drawbridge lies before us. Guards carrying crossbows shout at us for a couple of minutes before loosening the winch, and opening the doors.

Balder is a truly impressive city. Built on the outskirts of the Eternal Desert, the city was founded upon a large body of water- the only water I've seen all day in the desert - dense enough to nourish all of their citizens without having to worry about over-stretching the supply. As such, a the buildings in the town (a curious rendition of wood and stone) encompass an enormous lake. The city has a natural beauty to it, and I find myself wondering if our misunderstanding of humanity went deeper than I had imagined. Certainly, they were crafty, quirky creatures, I had no particular quarrel with them.

We were able to get Artorias to a alchemists on our way in with little fuss, and promising co-operation. Then, we were escorted by rapier-wielding guards as we crossed a bridge and entered the royal pavilions. Several aristocratic types gave us funny looks, like we were dirt off of a shoe that had somehow gained life. I ignored them. I've been getting this treatment all my life.

The guards stopped by a set of golden-hinged doors and beckoned us inside. Wiping our shoes on the rug, we did so.

The Knight King Rendal was in the middle of some kind of discussion with his jester when we walked in. He was a funny-looking, short man with a plump face, a skinny body and a clump of hair on his chin trying to pass for a goatee. And I'm not talking about the jester.

"You are excused," Rendal called to him in a voice unfitting for a child, no less a king. Then, he turned to us, with his arms spread wide, and wished us a warm welcome and a happy day. 'This couldn't be him,' I thought to myself. 'The Knight King Rendal of Balder, who had killed a drake with his bare hands. This couldn't be him.'

He seemed to anticipate my skepticism, for he quickly told us: "I am often mistaken for my father," he giggled, "But we are two different men. When he handed his kingdom to me, he did so willingly, believing in the strength of my contribution to his legacy!"

"Oh, brother," I heard Ornstein mutter.

"Where is your father?" Ciaran asks, her inquisitive nature uprooting any glimpse of politeness or courtesy.

"I'm afraid he has gone quite mad. We keep him in the dungeons for the kingdom's safety. Such a strong man he was, too. A ruler with an iron fist. I imagine I am somewhat of a disappointment to him."

His attitude had been completely polarised in a matter of minutes, which I found to be quite strange. But I was further troubled by the revelations about his father. Rendal was a strong ally to gain, and with his loss, any chance for an alliance between our lands could be evaporated.

"A pity," Ciaran says, and I wonder how deeply she means it. "Quite mad, you say?"

"Oh yes! Thoroughly! Like jam on toast. It all started the day he died."

My breath caught in my throat. Had I misheard him. "Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"I apologise if I misheard you. You said that your father had died."

"You hear me loud and clear."

"And yet, he resides in the dungeon."

"For our sake, not his."

Chills began to run down my spine, and I felt the impulse to turn and run away as fast as I possibly could. But alas, I am a trusted knight of Gwyn, and we leave the running to the bad guys.

"Tell me about the day he died."

A sadness blooms in Rendal Jr's eyes. "Not even a full cycle ago. He was riding back through the castle grounds after a hunt in the forest. He'd been very lucky too; three wild boars and a pheasant. A feast was in order. A feast of the damned, perhaps. It was the strangest thing I have ever seen..."

"That might not be saying much," Ornstein interjected.

The King ignored him (or perhaps did not even hear him; so lost was he in the flurry of his own, tragic memories.) "His horse, Pride, was one of the best. Reliable; sturdy, dependable. He earned his name in a trial by fire against bandits in the woods. The King loved him like his own child. But that day, something spooked him..."

His irises clouded over, and a darkness spread across his face. "Pride never got spooked."

"This story doesn't have a bright ending, does it?" Ciaran's psychic powers of foretelling were clearly unmatched.

"She bucked, and the king... my, my father... his neck was broken. He died instantly. He's never been the same since."

"I can imagine," Ornstein grunts, and I gesture his silence. "So, what happened next?" I asked.

Rendal shrugs. "There was a ceremony, and all the members of our family showed up to give their condolences. My Uncle, Karamir of Zena, took the throne of Balder. Seven days later, he was found dead with his throat slit. My father's sword, still dripping with blood, lay at his feet. We buried the sword with my father."

"Grave robbers?" I offered, but Rendal shook his head with fury.

"The wounds were not self-inflicted. He had been stabbed multiple times in the chest. Even if not for this damning evidence, we found my father cowering under a table in the royal bedrooms. But he was not... the same. I couldn't believe my father could've killed his uncle in cold blood, but I could take no chances. He has been locked in the dungeon ever since."

"This is troubling news," Ciaran said. "But we came here with one purpose, and we intend to fulfil it." Rendal looks at us inquisitively. "Where is Ariamis?"

"Hmmm," he says quietly. "I have not seen him in some while. Let's see... He was here last month for materials, and I told him, I told him: 'Ariamis, I want you to make a sculpture of my father, and bring it to me.' For aesthetics, you see... Make the people more comfortable amongst all this seat-swapping hysteria."

Ornstein grunts and shakes his head sleepily. "I believe our trip has been wasted. I must check on Artorias, but I will meet you back at the gates in three hours."

"I'm coming too," Ciaran cries, leaving me standing with the King.

"I should also check on my father," he says. No offence was intended, I'm certain, but yet, leaving me alone like this does a lot to make one feel isolated. I decide to follow Rendal, and he leads me down a winding passageway lined with flickering flames and dusty cobwebs. We reach a door, and Rendal turns to me.

"You should probably brace yourself. Whatever this... creature is, it is not my father."

I nod, and with one push from my gigantic fingers, I open the door, anxiety eating me from the inside.

* * *

_- Anor Londo -_

Havel was always alarmed whenever someone would walk into the kitchen above. Whether they were servants, or Lords intending to whip the servants, there was always a stark terror in his gut that he would be discovered. One accidental trip, or collision, and the secret passage would open before their eyes. The spell that maintained the illusion was not strong, and Havel resented having to use it, hypocrisy burning like acid through all of his ambitions and fragile hopes.

Right at that moment, two Silver Knights were on patrol, and he could hear the heavy clunking of their armour as they strode about above. He also caught a little of their chatter.

"Did you hear about the fishing village to the south?"

"No. What happened?"

"Burned to ashes. Everyone killed. The official cause is arson, but you and I both know that this fire was something else."

"You mean... it could be dragon-fire?"

"I don't want to believe it, but yes, I suspect so."

"I thought all the dragons were extinct! Except, you know, Seath."

"There have been whispers all across the land that recently there have been several dragon sightings. Hundreds more than usual, and hundreds over the point at which I wouldn't believe it."

"Well, I hope it doesn't come here. I've been enjoying the peace time, you know? Raising my son, caring for my wife. We even got ourselves a patch of land down south. We're going to grow cabbages."

"Ah, that sounds lovely. I just-"

The screams of the knight as he plummeted through the wall echoed through the blackness in which Havel stood. Not much caused the Rock to shake, but this sudden turn of events sent shivers all down his bones.

"What the?" the other Silver Knight yelled, charging down the stairs at blinding speed and surprising accuracy. He helped his comrade to his feet, and then swivelled his head around, surveying the strange pit that he had fallen into.

"I think we should report this," he said, calmly.

"Are you nuts!?" his friend blurted. "We haven't seen action in years! This place is a prize catch, and I don't want some nobody's coming in and taking our jobs! Come on!"

"I don't know about this, there's something really fishy about this."

"Exactly! Finding and bringing Gwyn the treasonable, conniving weasel who built this would get us promoted to Lords, I'll bet you. You can have whole fields of cabbages!"

"Look, I don't want any trouble."

Havel slowly crept around the pillars, certain that one noise could give him away. He aimed not to make any, and was succeeding, against all odds.

"That's your problem. You're a thinker, I'm a doer. We're a perfect team; a lightning combination. They would carve out names in history!"

"Alright, look. I'll stay for ten minutes, but I need to get off quick tonight. Me and the wife are having pie."

"You won't miss a slice, I promise. In fact, you'll have all the pies you could ever dream of!"

"You really know how to tempt me, don't you?" his comrade laughed.

"Years of experience have taught me much. Now, I want you-"

The silver-horned helmet was durable, but nothing could prepare it for the crunching of Greatshield-against-wall. The metal wrenched and groaned, and both the helmet and the knight's skull caved in at approximately the same time. The knight crumpled to the ground, his lips curled in a final, yet deprived, scream of agony.

His friend whipped around, disoriented by the low visibility, and drew his sword. Havel was ready. He hefted his enormous shield into the air again, and the straight sword, despite its extreme slender dexterity, could not handle the pressure. The hilt shattered, and the metal fell in pieces to the floor. A kick to the knight's shin sent him sprawling, and almost instantaneously, he felt another leg poised over his throat, followed by a barely-audible, maddened whisper.

"You know what I'm going to make of you?" Havel the Rock asked, knowing that no answer would sway his judgement.

"Cabbage soup."

Then the hammer came down, and the darkness became permanent.

* * *

_- Balder City Barracks -_

The eyes were cold, and yellow. Like a vicious lizard. They followed me from the doorway to where I stand now, a few inches back from the black-stone bars. There was no life, or warmth, or humanity in them. They seeped death from every vein, and just knowing that just one of them might be upon me at any moment was enough to warrant my uncharacteristic silence. Rendal's face was like a stone slab as he tossed a chunk of bloodied meat through the bars, whereupon it was devoured hungrily by sharpened claws.

"My father," he confirmed solemnly, turning from the ghastly sight and trying to look me in the eyes. "He is not so well behaved around guests any more. You will want to stay back."

I nod, for I certainly have no objections to this. The sounds of munching and crunching that escape from the cell are unlike anything I have ever associated with the word 'alive.'

"My lord?" Rendal tries once more to grab the attention of the hollowed shell of his father. The creature just stares wildly at him, beyond recognition of a man, and yet more reminiscent of one than a true monster.

Suddenly, the wraith charges the bars, and its clammy palms clasp the fiercely-wrought stone. Upon realisation that its escape was not assured, its mouth twitched into a snarl, and bloodied globs of saliva flooded from its open mouth. An indescribable look passes Rendal's face, and I see his hand reach for his belt. With one quick movement, he has released his halberd from its rest, and replaced it in the front of his father's chest. The 'hollow' crumples, moaning quietly.

Rendal looks at me, and his eyes betray that he is not relieved for the death of the abomination. "He'll be back," he says dismissively. "Give it a few hours."

I find my black curiosity getting the better of me again. "Is it safe to approach him?"

Rendal nods, but he looks confused. "Why?"

"I must see," I say, and approach the bars where the former king has fallen. Gently, I reach for his skeletal face, and prise open one of his eyelids. For several good seconds, I just stare. Stare into the abyssal void of desperation and futility, the vortex of soul-consuming misery.

And darkness stares back.

**NEXT CHAPTER: The Siege of Anor Londo - October**


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